


No Home Like the One I’ve Got

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [65]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Where I Belong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29313099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: After two months trapped in his Animagus form, Greg Parker is home, but the fight’s not over yet.  Team One wants their boss back, but Intelligence Services wants him back in the field immediately and even the Mayor’s office is piling on.  The only way out is an immediate retirement…or is it?
Relationships: Sam Braddock/Jules Callaghan
Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [65]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/538363
Comments: 56
Kudos: 8





	1. Unfit for Duty

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the sixty-fifth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "The OMAC Project".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

_Previously_

Greg saw Lou dragging Spike out of the burning apartment complex, both of them covered in dirt and debris; fresh horror wrapped around him at the realization that they’d been _that_ close to the _bomb_.

“Lou, let me _go!_ ” Spike yelled, fighting against his friend’s grip. “We _can’t_ let him die!”

Above them, gryphon muscles tensed. Can’t let _who_ die?

“Spike, man, it’s too late!” Lou yelled back, refusing to loosen his grip. “If Wordy couldn’t get to him, _we_ sure can’t!”

“No, we have to save him!” Spike insisted. “We can’t give up on him!” Fighting even harder against Lou’s hold, the bomb tech screamed, “ _Ed!_ ”

* * * * *

The fire boomed, flames scorching the third floor balcony and bringing the precarious platform crashing to the ground. But Greg was already clear, soaring towards the parking lot and a familiar Team One SRU truck. Beside the vehicle, he could see Spike still fighting against Lou’s inflexible hold, shouting insults as he fought to get free.

With a sharp growl-hiss, he landed in front of both men, inwardly smirking at the stunned expressions on their faces at the sight of him and two unconscious humans on his back.

* * * * *

Greg let out a low, rumbling snarl and uncurled, leaping down from the truck and landing in the middle of the huddle with his wings tented. The message was clear: _he_ would help them retake the barn and save their friends.

* * * * *

The gryphon gave a plaintive, worried whine and Ed’s head came up, blue meeting hazel. He wasn’t even aware of speaking until he heard himself say, “Greg?”

* * * * *

Light flashed, the collar’s magic giving way, and the gryphon form before them _flexed_ and _shifted_. No smooth blur of animal into human, no, it was more like when the Animagus reversal spell had been used. Bones broke audibly as the gryphon writhed under the magic, though he never cried out. Feathers and fur rippled, reluctantly giving way to skin and soot-stained clothing. Wings folded in on themselves, blending into his back and revealing that the shirt beneath was one of his custom-altered shirts, specially tailored to allow for his vanishing wings. The tail vanished and that great gryphon head blurred, giving way to human features. Though they’d half-expected a beard and hair down to Greg’s shoulders, he looked just as he always had. In fact, he looked as though he’d just had a haircut and a fresh shave.

But he was terribly thin and gaunt. Not quite starving, but his skin hung on his frame, tinged gray, and his cheeks and face were hollow, almost sunken. His clothing and shoes looked as if he’d been through a fire – the same fire that had killed the Castor siblings – and his gun was still tucked in its holster on the gun belt around his waist. Worst of all, his hands were bleeding and his face was already twisting in sheer _agony_.

* * * * *

“Ed, while Auror Queenscove contacts his father, we’ll need to move Sergeant Parker to the magic side of the barn.”

“Sir?” Ed asked in confusion.

The commander’s expression turned stern. “Additionally, _none_ of you are to inform anyone outside of this room of Sergeant Parker’s survival. Not your coworkers, not your families, _no one_. Am I understood?”

“What about Sarge’s kids?” Wordy protested.

“ _No one_ , Constable Wordsworth,” Holleran repeated, the words harsh and ripping. Dark eyes went harder. “And Sergeant Lane, before you even go there, you are _not_ volunteering for a demotion so Sergeant Parker can take command of Team One back. I won’t accept it and neither will Parker.”

“So what happens to Greg?” he questioned. “What, we just leave him out in the cold ‘cause IS made him lie and stuck him undercover without asking? Greg’s _Team One_ , _sir_. And his kids have suffered long enough.”

Holleran returned the glare with interest. “Sergeant Lane, that’s my decision. _No one_ outside of those who already know is to be informed of Parker’s return.” A beat, heavy with meaning. “And regardless of anything else, Sergeant Parker is _not_ a member of Team One anymore. The sooner you accept that, the better.”

Reluctantly, Ed Lane bowed to his commander’s orders, his posture warning his teammates not to argue either. “Yes, sir.”

* * * * *

_Now_

Between a quick Disillusionment spell and another levitation spell, moving Greg out of Commander Holleran’s office without anyone seeing him was accomplished with much the same ease Ed had come to expect with magic. The ease left a sour tang in the Sergeant’s mouth; magic was a great tool, he _knew_ that, but all too often, none of them considered the _cost_ of that tool. They still didn’t have the full story, but Ed was going to _bet_ that Greg had gotten slapped with a Portkey to the middle of nowhere, an _easy_ thing for whoever had done that to him. An _easy_ crime, to kidnap a police officer and leave him stranded, half a continent away from home.

Could Greg have gotten kidnapped _without_ magic? Of course, but it was _magic_ that had made the crime so easy, _magic_ that meant Greg had disappeared from the scene of a fire and been presumed dead, an eventuality that was unlikely to happen on a purely _tech_ hot call. Ed’s expression hardened, donning a familiar mask – the mask he wore as Team One’s Sergeant, a position he’d been thrust into without warning and deceived about the _reasons_ behind his promotion.

The rest of his team adopted that same coldness, hiding their emotions from the rest of the barn, all of whom were curious about why they’d been in the commander’s office for so long. Although Ed was livid at Holleran’s declaration that _no one_ was to know about Greg’s survival, he knew just as well as the older man that Greg was still _technically_ assigned to Intelligence Services as an undercover officer. To let IS get their claws on Greg again _wasn’t_ happening, so secrets, once again, were the name of the game.

Once on the magic side of the barn, Giles took the lead, heading for a space that wasn’t being used, why, Ed hadn’t a clue, but it meant they had a spot for Greg to hide out in for a few days. The small room was bare, but clean of dust. Ed and Wordy caught their now visible boss and kept him off the ground while their Auror liaison conjured a bed. Sam arched a brow at the plain wood of the bed frame and the rigid mattress on top.

The Auror’s shoulders slumped. “Conjuration’s not my thing, Braddock,” he admitted. “It’ll only last a hour, but that gives me some time to find something better.”

“An exam bed would be better, Auror Onasi.”

All heads turned to a man in the room’s doorway. The wizard’s brunet hair fell down past his shoulders, though it was caught up in a tie that kept it out of his face. Green eyes very like his son’s, if a touch darker, regarded Team One with understanding and sympathy. As he moved into the room, Ed noted that he had hints of silver at his temples and a reddish tint to his hair. Behind him, Neal fidgeted, clearly unsure of his next move.

“Nealan, attend me,” the elder wizard ordered, drawing his wand. The bed Giles had conjured vanished, replaced by a contoured exam bed, one that would let the injured Sergeant remain on his front, with hands and feet well away from touching any surfaces. That done, he turned towards Ed and Wordy. In a kindly tone that nonetheless offered not a trace of _pity_ , he asked, “Would you prefer to place Sergeant Parker on the bed yourselves, gentlemen?”

“Whichever’s better for Greg,” Ed replied immediately. Did he want to? Very much, but Greg had suffered enough without the jarring he and Wordy might inadvertently cause.

The Healer studied him a moment, then inclined his chin and gestured with his wand. Greg lifted up and the two officers hastily got out of the way as the wizard guided his patient to the exam bed. Once Greg was down, the Healer waved his son over and began examining Greg from head to toe, clearly preferring an actual examination to using his wand.

“Father…”

“All in good time, Nealan,” the older man interrupted. Without glancing up from his work, he added, “You may call me Baird, officers.” For a moment, his head came up and he cast them a wink. “Neal has told me much about your team and I have observed your endeavours with great interest. You have set our world on its ear by nothing more than being _yourselves_.”

“And we’ve paid the price for that,” Sam countered; Ed jerked in surprise. Seeing that, the blond snorted. “Come on, Ed, don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same. You think the Boss would’ve been targeted like this if we _weren’t_ working magic-side?”

“Castor Troy still would’ve come after him,” Jules pointed out.

“Would he?” Lou asked suddenly. “How do we know he wasn’t broken out of prison by somebody with _magic_?”

Ed swallowed; he’d had the same thought himself. How _easy_ would it have been for some wizard with a grudge to arrange for Castor Troy’s release? He knew Moffet would’ve done it, in an instant, if he thought it would benefit his ongoing vendetta against Team One. Still, the Sergeant said nothing as he leaned against the wall and watched Greg’s slow, steady breathing. True, their team had paid – _was paying_ – a heavy price for getting involved in the magical world, but by that same token, they’d also _gained_ so very much.

His boss and best friend wasn’t a lonely man, trudging through life without family, going home to an empty apartment day after day. Lou wasn’t six feet under in a casket because of an aging environmentalist who’d wanted to cut a swath through the city so badly that he’d booby-trapped his last bomb. Wordy still had Parkinson’s, but so long as his healing bracelet kept working, he could stay on Team One for the rest of his career without worrying that his body would betray him at any moment.

Lives changed, lives _saved_ , all because they’d chosen to _embrace_ the magical world, come what may. And though the price was turning out to be far higher than they’d ever imagined, they’d made that choice, in full knowledge that there were _going_ to be people who hated their decision and some of those people might well lash out. They’d accepted that risk and everything that came with it, good and bad.

“Guys, we made the call,” Wordy said, voicing Ed’s internal conclusion. “Stop with the ‘what-if’s, it doesn’t change a thing.” He stopped, a glimmer of anguish appearing. “ _We_ made the call to take the Auror badges, so you might as well say _we_ put Sarge on that bed.” Anguish deepened. “Don’t…don’t cheapen what Sarge did for us by second-guessing everything.”

“But…” Spike’s grief shone in dark eyes. “If he never _walks_ again…”

“Cease and desist,” Healer Queenscove snapped, straightening from his examination. The team stopped, caught off guard by the demand. The older man pinned them with a glare. “Have you so little _faith_ after all that you have seen?”

Ed returned the man’s gaze, striving for calm. “He walked every bit of skin off his hands and feet.”

The wizard’s expression softened, though only by a hair. “That is so,” he conceded softly. “And his recovery will be long and difficult, but so long as he _keeps_ to that recovery, he will walk again. He will use his hands again.” A faint smile appeared. “In fact, I have every confidence that he will be able to return to active duty.”

Shock reverberated around the room, even the wizards stunned by the Healer’s pronouncement. “You’re sure?” Jules managed to ask around her astonishment.

Baird Queenscove bowed in affirmation. “I am.” His head came up, green catching Ed’s blue. “If I recall correctly, Sergeant Lane, _you_ are Sergeant Parker’s medical proxy of record?”

“That’s right.”

The Healer bobbed his head. “If I may, Sergeant Lane, my son once intended to join me in the Healing profession. If I might, could I instruct my son as I treat your colleague? The instruction would not interfere with Sergeant Parker’s recovery, you have my word on that.”

Ed considered the wizard a moment, then glanced over at Giles and a silent Dustil Onasi. “Giles, we’ll keep you informed.”

The Auror’s shoulders slumped at the dismissal, but he tilted his head at the door. “Come on, son, let’s go find somewhere else to lurk.”

Dustil bit his lip, but let his father bustle him out the door without a syllable of protest. Neal looked just as unhappy, but the green-eyed wizard said nothing, understanding Ed’s reluctance to trust a convicted criminal with the details of Sergeant Parker’s current condition. The young Auror’s own father nodded, approval at the decision plain.

Turning back to Healer Queenscove, Ed said, “Go for it, but that means you’re telling _us_ everything, too.”

The Healer inclined his chin in acceptance, then gestured Neal to his side. “Now then, Neal, do you know what you did wrong with your diagnostic spell?”

“I didn’t record the results?” Neal offered uncertainly.

“No, no,” the elder Queenscove disagreed. “A preliminary examination need not be written down, Neal, particularly if immediate treatment is required.” A brief pause. “And coming to me, especially when you were unsure of the proper course, was well done, my son. Never attempt to tackle a treatment you are unsure of, save in the _direst_ of circumstances. Healing is an exacting art and one which involves other human beings.”

Neal nodded, intent on his father’s lesson. In the background, Ed quelled his teammates’ impatient shuffles with a glance. Greg was still asleep and oblivious to the pain, plus the Sergeant was almost completely certain that his friend would accept being a bit of a living lesson to a young Auror they both liked.

“What you did _wrong_ , Neal, was to put your trust _exclusively_ in the diagnostic spell,” Baird explained. “I am not surprised, most young Healers have the same tendency, I’m afraid. Never assume that any diagnostic, no matter how well cast, will give you _all_ the information you require. Always examine your patient’s injuries yourself; if you must act to stabilize them first, do so, but make _sure_ you examine them before proceeding any further.”

So saying, the Healer guided his son to Greg’s mangled feet and began to lecture, explaining what his _personal_ examination had found that the diagnostic had not. Despite the flood of technical terms that Ed only half-understood, he winced – Queenscove was being very thorough, particularly with his speculation of how the ongoing physical damage had affected Greg. In short, Ed was learning far more than he’d ever wanted about _how_ Greg had gotten injured and, worse, how much _pain_ he was in.

The Healer worked his way up, explaining how Greg’s condition had been affected by lack of food and the diminishment of his physical reserves. Though he touched on the three pain spells the diagnostic had uncovered, Queenscove maintained that Greg had long since recovered from the spells, though that recovery _had_ set him back, thus contributing to the later, more extensive injuries. When they reached Greg’s hands, Ed flinched outright at the confirmation of nerve damage, but the Healer was unconcerned even as Neal vibrated anxiously at the extent of what Greg had suffered.

When Queenscove’s explanation finished, his son gazed down at Greg then up at his father. “So how do we treat all of that?”

“Slowly and in stages, my son.” The Healer waved his wand, conjuring a table tall enough for him to set out a number of potion jars. “Even magic has its limits, Neal; I cannot wave my wand and repair all of these injuries overnight, much as I might wish to. _Without_ magic, I confess, I must concur with Constable Scarlatti’s fears – Sergeant Parker’s ability to walk and use his hands will be severely compromised; there will be no question of his retirement.” He let that hang just long enough for his son – and the rest of the room – to shiver. “However, _with_ magic, it is a far different story.”

Picking up one jar, Queenscove opened it and moved to Greg’s hands. “Help me put this on, Neal. Don’t stint, I want both hands well coated.”

“Yes, sir,” Neal replied, joining his father.

Even as he worked, Queenscove continued his lecture. “I estimate at least a month before the initial damage has healed and another two months before Sergeant Parker can resume his full complement of duties.” Brisk, but efficient, the Healer finished applying the paste-like potion and cast a spell to ensure it stayed on Greg’s hand. He waited until Neal was finished, then cast the same spell on Greg’s other hand. With a glance in Ed’s direction, he said, “I will make arrangements for a bed identical to this one; it’s best that Sergeant Parker remains off the ground and on his stomach to avoid anything touching either his hands or feet. A bed sheet, perhaps, but no more.

“For the first day or two, I will provide you with sleeping and nutrient potions, Neal; spell them directly into his system. Rest and open air is the best course at this early stage. After two days, we may dispense with the sleeping potions; I doubt Sergeant Parker will be in the mood to go far; but continue with the nutrient potions. The sooner we can build Sergeant Parker’s system back up to a regular diet, the better. He will need _strength_ to heal.”

“How far can he go?” Ed asked.

Healer Queenscove inclined his head and, picking up another jar, moved to Greg’s feet. “For the first week, to the bathroom and back, Sergeant Lane. Any more will interfere with the healing; I doubt he’s capable of more anyway. Nothing at all for the first two days, I fear.”

Neal joined his father and the two worked quickly, spreading the second potion on the soles of the sleeping man’s ravaged feet. “Should I reapply the potions, Father?” Neal inquired.

“Yes, of course,” the elder wizard confirmed. “Never fear, Neal, I will supply you with more. These must be applied for the first three weeks for maximum benefit, every morning and every evening. I will teach you the spell I’m using, but it’s not essential so long as the potions absorb into Sergeant Parker’s skin.”

“Are they for the pain?” Wordy asked.

“The potions serve three purposes, Constable Wordsworth,” the Healer replied. “First, as you said, they are intended to reduce Sergeant Parker’s pain. Second, they promote the healing of damaged flesh and nerves and thirdly, they will guard against further damage.” A brief frown. “They are more for the first two, I fear, but they will offer some small protection.”

“So Greg can get to the bathroom,” Ed concluded, earning a nod. “What else are we looking at here?”

Queenscove considered, expression thoughtful. “No footwear of any kind for the first six days,” he decreed. “The skin will be far too fragile to withstand it.” The wizard’s glare backed up the edict. “After those six days, Sergeant Parker _may_ wear slippers. No shoes, no socks. He may also add the shower and mealtimes to his excursions, but they must be kept as short as possible, to reduce the strain on his hands and feet.”

“How long with just slippers?” Jules asked, once again writing in her notebook.

The Healer considered her question. “Two to three weeks, starting from today if all goes well, Constable Callaghan. At that time, subject to my approval, Sergeant Parker may begin wearing a lighter shoe as well as socks.”

“Sneakers?” Lou suggested.

“I will need to see them, but I suspect so,” Queenscove concurred. “I will also clear him for _light_ duty, but not a full day’s work by any means. At four weeks, he may resume a full day’s work, but _no overtime_ and I expect him to remain indoors whenever possible. Extreme temperatures, in either direction, could re-damage the skin. At six weeks, I can clear him for full duty and the boots I see all of you are wearing, but I would recommend caution for another fortnight complete beyond that.” A brief pause. “That is, of course, under ideal conditions, so his recovery, in practical terms, may take as many as three months.”

As Healer Queenscove finished elaborating his general treatment plan, Commander Holleran slipped into the room, expression worn. Most of Team One regarded him rather frostily, still upset over his edict that their boss’s kids be kept in the dark, but Ed simply cast him a questioning look. The tall pepper-haired man managed a wan smile. “I need a week,” he said simply.

“For what?” Wordy asked, eyebrows hiking.

The commander sighed. “Wordsworth, I’ve been trying to get Parker back since the day we lost him.” Holleran slumped, just a hair, but none of them missed it. “He’s too darn good; once he started catching dirty cops left, right, and center, neither the Commissioner nor the mayor’s office would give me the time of day.”

“Even though the Boss never wanted the transfer?” Jules blurted, dismay shining bright.

Bitterness twisted Holleran’s mouth. “Who do you _think_ authorized the transfer in the _first_ place, Constable Callaghan? They authorized the gag order, too.” The bitterness grew in the commander’s dark eyes. “After Parker was presumed dead, I started arguing that he’d want to be buried _as_ an SRU officer. Another few days, maybe a week, and I would’ve had all the paperwork completed.”

Ed’s mouth dried up. “But until you _do_ …”

“…he’s still IS,” Holleran finished grimly. “And worse, if IS can _prove_ we knew he was alive _before_ the paperwork was finished, they can lobby for it to be reversed.”

Lane felt his chest close up; in the background, their teammates were ashen with horror as they understood, all too well, why their commander was being so inflexible. “Sir…if you knew all that…why did you tell us about the report? You said it yourself, you _suspected_ it was Greg…why blow his cover if you needed more time?”

Silence rang around them, even the Queenscoves hanging onto the drama before them, waiting with baited breath for the response. At length, Commander Holleran bowed his head. “Ed…he’s one of my officers, I couldn’t just _leave_ him like that.” The black man’s fists clenched. “Everything he did to get home…I _couldn’t_ dishonor that.”

Ed swallowed harshly; for two _months_ , his commander had lived with the knowledge that his shooting had led directly to the fire. Holleran had been the only member of the SRU who’d known the truth, Greg’s last link – his last _anchor_ – to _home_. In his own bitterness, Ed had never considered that Commander Holleran felt just as much guilt as the rest of them over what had happened to Greg.

Softly, the Sergeant murmured, “We hear you, sir.” He waited until Holleran looked up, then continued, “But sir, _we_ aren’t the only ones Greg came home for. He came home for his kids, too.” A beat. “Don’t get me wrong, sir; you tell Greg that you need another week and he’ll wait. It’ll kill him, but he’ll wait.” Determination and plea wove together. “He shouldn’t _have_ to, Commander. Everything he did, he did for _them_. He _deserves_ to know that his kids are okay, that Castor Troy didn’t get them.”

Yet again, silence rang, tension thick in the air. At last, Commander Holleran nodded. Turning to Healer Queenscove, he remarked, “I didn’t hear everything in here, so how long is Parker going to be kept unconscious?”

“Two days, Commander,” Baird Queenscove replied, his voice soft. Glancing over at Team One, he said, “I agree with Sergeant Lane, Commander. There has been enough grief and it will do my patient a great deal of good to see those he loves most. I am certain that between myself, my son, and Auror Onasi, we can keep the secret of Sergeant Parker’s survival from these…unsavory…elements. Were it not for the short length of time involved, I would recommend a Conspirator’s Hold to protect this secret.”

“A Conspirator’s Hold?” Lou asked curiously.

“Yes, it is similar to the _Fidelius_ , Constable Young, save that it is meant to keep information secret, rather than a location. It also has a somewhat darker reputation.” The Healer paused. “However, if a week is all you require, I believe we can manage that.”

Holleran jerked a nod, but pointed at Ed. “No one else, Sergeant Lane!”

“Yes, sir,” Ed agreed. Sophie was going to kill him, but this time, Greg came first. Once his friend was safely back in the SRU, then he’d tell Sophie the whole story and take whatever punishment she saw fit to dish out. They just had to get through a whole week without anyone guessing that Greg was alive and back in Toronto.

Simple.

* * * * *

He was sleeping. He knew that, in a vague, distant way, but a part of him was very much awake. It was a quandary…he was too deeply asleep to stop the magic rising within him and too awake to be oblivious to it. Nevertheless, Greg fought, struggling against the power squeezing his chest and summoning the links he’d spent two _months_ ignoring and another two months following home.

Trapped in dreams, no one heard him cry out in dismay as the links surged to life, fairly _howling_ in triumph. No longer were they blocked by a collar or restrained by the Sergeant’s desperate need for his soul to be his own again. Magic roared and even while comatose, Greg felt his mouth move, heard the orders ring out. Orders that were incredibly simple and yet an absolute violation of his team’s free will, their _right_ to choose.

Just as he had before, he strained to countermand the orders, but something seized hold, rendering him mute – helpless. Guilt he’d thought conquered crashed down once more, leaving the negotiator drowning in shame. Tears slipped down, but he refused to cry. He didn’t _deserve_ to cry. The dreams twisted around him, pulling him down into sweet oblivion. As the awake part of his mind fell back into slumber, guilt squirmed in his chest, rotting his homecoming joy from the inside out, and his magical core began to throb as the links pulled ever more magic from it.

* * * * *

Sound came first. The _hiss_ of ventilation, the steady rhythm utterly alien after so many days of wind and traffic and birdsong. A rustling nearby, irregular enough that his budding panic eased. The turn of a page, the whisper-soft _sigh_ of someone with a good book. Even a tiny _creak_ from a chair as its occupant leaned back, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Pain came next, in a steady throb from hands and feet. It pulsed with his heartbeat, a reminder that he’d pushed himself well beyond his limits. He knew if he flexed, the ravaged flesh would pull and scream, so he stayed as still as possible, savoring a final respite before the day began. He’d be doing more damage soon enough…

It occurred to the man that he might want to open his eyes. Figure out where he was…and why his body felt different. The weight on his back, the gentle pull of his wings…it was gone, leaving him feeling strangely naked. He couldn’t feel his talons either or sense his lion claws, sheathed, but ready to be called upon at need. The lack left him utterly defenseless…how was he supposed to protect himself without beak, fangs, talons, or claws? His muscles, too, felt flimsy and weak, scarcely enough to lift his head, never mind the rest of his body.

Panic stirred…how was he supposed to get home if his body failed him _now_? He was so _close_ , he _couldn’t_ fail _now_. But he felt weak as a newborn gryphlet, feeble and helpless. Instinctively, he struggled, trying to get his trembling limbs underneath him. He couldn’t give up, he _wouldn’t_ give up…

“Whoa! Easy, Sarge, don’t hurt yourself!”

He heard the book crash to the ground, dropped without so much as second thought. Someone touched his back, keeping him in place. He fought, mindlessly and with a desperation he didn’t even fully understand. Something was missing, something important, something precious and irreplaceable. He _had_ to get it back, he _had_ to.

The person above him swore and the next thing Greg knew, he’d been half-lifted off the bed – he was on a _bed_ , when had _that_ happened? – and arms locked around his chest, pressing him against the other person and keeping his own arms still so he couldn’t use them. “Sarge! Come on, Sarge, listen to me! It’s me! It’s Wordy!”

 _Wordy?_ His struggles lessened, panic starting to ebb.

“Okay, easy there… Good… That’s it, Sarge, you’re okay. We got you; you’re home, I promise.”

“Dream?” Was that…was that _his_ voice? It sounded rusty, disused…unused to speaking.

The laugh he heard was watery and hysterical. “Sarge, if this is just a dream, it’s gotta be a _really_ good one, ‘cause I’m having it, too.”

All at once, his limbs gave out and he sagged back against Wordy, head lolling against his constable’s – _former_ constable’s – broad shoulder. “S…sorry.” _So very sorry…you have no idea how sorry I am, Wordy._

Wordy’s grip adjusted, becoming more of a hug than a restraint. “We know, Sarge. We know you didn’t mean it; we heard you talking to Ed.”

 _Eddie?_ When had he talked to Eddie?

“Oh. You don’t remember that, do you?”

Greg swallowed, wincing at the dryness of his throat, and shook his head, feeling the fabric of Wordy’s shirt move underneath.

There was a long pause, then Wordy sighed to himself. “Okay, Sarge. I’m gonna let you back down, then I’ll go get you some water. You’ve been asleep for two days straight; I bet you’re parched.”

The negotiator couldn’t even muster the strength to nod, instead slumping into Wordy’s grasp as the big man lowered him back to the bed, an odd shaped contraption that left him lying on his stomach, but kept his hands and feet off the ground. As Wordy moved off to find that promised water, Greg finally realized why he felt so…weak and helpless. Deformed and crippled.

He was finally back in his human form – and it made his _skin_ crawl.

* * * * *

Wordy had to hold the glass; the flesh of his hands was too weak and fragile to even grasp the lightweight plastic cup, much less lift it. Greg had never felt more ashamed and exposed in his _life_. He couldn’t stop shivering either, used to the warmth of fur and feathers, the strength he’d come to take for granted. Compared to his gryphon form, his human form felt so very _helpless_ in comparison. No inbuilt defenses, no ability to see for kilometers, no way to _fly_ , and as fragile as a dandelion. His body felt _wrong_ , alien and foreign.

Memory had trickled back, but he still couldn’t remember much from after the collar had been removed. Mostly pain and the feel of someone rubbing his back, right between his shoulder blades. Had to have been Eddie; he was the only one who knew about that spot… Greg might’ve flushed at the memory of when he and Ed had first made that little discovery, but he couldn’t remember _how_. Two months in animal form had left their mark, leaving Greg a stranger to himself, struggling to remember how to _function_ as a human.

The glass pulled away and Greg made an indignant noise, cringing instantly when he realized he’d reacted like a _gryphon_ , not a man. He managed to clear his throat, rasping, “Wordy…”

“Not too fast, Sarge,” Wordy chided, bringing the water back. He said nothing about the Sergeant’s initial response; only the tightening of his jaw and the scrunch of his nose indicating that he’d noticed.

Greg throttled his first instinct, forcing himself to _speak_. “How long?” At Wordy’s arched brow, he swallowed, automatically hunching into himself. “Like this.”

Wordy cocked his head to the side, struggling to decipher the broken words. “You mean…how long do you have to be like this?” he guessed.

Fresh shame burbled, but Greg nodded, ducking his chin to hide the emotion and swallowing down another gulp of water. He’d had the full sentence in his head, but somehow, it just hadn’t come out. Another thing he’d lost? The officer in him quavered…how was he supposed to be a _negotiator_ if he couldn’t speak basic English?

“Four more days, Sarge,” Wordy informed him. “We’ll help you get to and from the bathroom, but your Healer doesn’t want you doing any more than that.”

“After?” Greg questioned, inwardly cursing his inability to speak _properly_.

Wordy shrugged. “You get slippers and showers,” he explained cheerfully. “The Healer said you could be up for meals, but we figured you’d probably get along better if we brought ‘em to you.”

Greg fought for the words, but they simply wouldn’t _come_. Gingerly, he flexed his hands, wincing when they protested the movements. Still thirsty, he leaned towards the cup and greedily sucked more water down.

“Yeah, that might be a problem,” Wordy conceded, eyeing his hands as he held the cup steady. “Don’t worry, Sarge, we’ll figure something out.” He shifted, pulling the water back again. “Okay, we’ll let that settle for a bit.” At the silent protest in Greg’s eyes, the big constable shook his head. “Sarge, we gotta go slow. Hope you enjoyed that steak, ‘cause now you’re on broth and nutrient potions.”

Oh, that was _so_ not fair. The Sergeant glared, absently grateful he _could_ still glare.

The brunet snorted at him, unimpressed. “Sarge, Healer Queenscove ‘bout had a coronary when Ed told him how much steak and bones you’d had right before Dustil got that collar off. Read him the riot act on the _spot_. Said you got lucky – most of it got digested before you reverted back to human.”

Parker froze. “That bad?” he managed.

“Yeah, that bad, Sarge. It’s not just your feet and hands; your whole system’s outta whack.” Wordy gave him a serious look. “Sarge, it’s gonna be two to three months before you’re back to where you were.” He let that hang, then stood up. “Okay, I’m gonna go tell Ed you’re awake, then I’ll call Shelley and ask her to bring your two rugrats to the station. We’re gonna have to be really careful, ‘cause Holleran’s still trying to get you back in the SRU, but…”

He trailed off at Greg’s frantic headshake.

“Boss? Don’t you _want_ to see them?”

A tiny keen escaped despite his best efforts. Oh, he _wanted_ to see them, wanted to hold them and hug them and reassure himself that they were _alive_. Greg squeezed his eyes shut, memories of the covered stretchers coming out of the judge’s house running through his mind. Shivers ran up and down his spine; he _wanted_ his kids, more than Wordy could ever understand, but instinct was screaming. Before…he might’ve dismissed it, but after two months as a gryphon, often with instinct as his only guide…he couldn’t.

He felt air move, then Wordy was griping his shoulders, concern radiating. “Sarge? You okay?”

Words…he needed words… Wordy couldn’t understand _instinct_ … “Too…too risky…” he rasped out.

“Sarge, Castor Troy’s _dead_. He can’t hurt your kids anymore.”

Greg shook his head, instinct howling. “Know that,” he croaked. “Keep. Away.” It was critical, it was _important_ , though he couldn’t remember _why_. Didn’t matter, his instincts knew and his mind was still too _gryphon_ to disregard them. “Promise, Wordy.”

There was a long, sorrowful silence, then Wordy sighed. “Okay, Sarge. I promise.”

Two tears leaked out, but they were _safe_ , they were _alive_. That was all that mattered.

Another sigh; Wordy had seen the tears. “Get some sleep, Boss. We’ll handle everything else.”

Parker jerked a nod and let Wordy help him back down on the odd, but comfortable bed. Glancing up, he forced his jaw open once more. “Wordy?”

Wordy stopped in the middle of straightening. “Yeah?”

“Thank…you…” A glimmer of reluctance, then he whispered, “Tell Eddie…I said…okay…tell…you about…” Greg grimaced, fighting past the mental block in his mind.

A hand touched his back. “Easy, Sarge. I’m not goin’ anywhere, just let it come.”

Simple…he needed simple… “Spot…on my back…”

The hand jerked away, but Wordy hovered close nonetheless.

A faint smile emerged. “Guess…guess I’m more…gryphon…than…than I think…”

His former constable hesitated, then asked, “So…if I’m getting you right, Sarge, you want Ed to tell me something about a spot on your back…that has to do with your gryphon form?”

Greg nodded. It was embarrassing, but… There was a whole mess of secrets he needed to tell his team, that they _deserved_ to know. He wasn’t sure they _needed_ to know _this_ secret, but he was _choosing_ to trust them with the secret regardless. “Tell…all…you…” A grimace emerged – how had two months of being a gryphon turned him into _this_? He couldn’t even _speak_ properly!

“Sarge, stop it,” Wordy chided. “You’ve only been back to human three days and you were sleeping for the first two, so give yourself a break.” The constable sighed, rubbing at his buzz cut. “Okay, anything else?”

Greg shook his head.

“Copy that.” Wordy shifted to rise, then stopped again. Turning back, gray eyes snagged hazel. “Welcome back, Sarge.”

The Sergeant reached down deep, determinedly gripping his _humanity_. “Thanks, Wordy.”

His friend’s broad smile lit the room.


	2. The First Secrets

“Wordy?” Ed asked, keeping his voice low. Between Sam’s concussion, Jules’ broken leg, and his own near death, Commander Holleran had been able to get Team One assigned to secondary status.

As far as the rest of the SRU was concerned, Team One was being punished for their role in the attack on the barn. Team Two had been gleeful, but Teams Three and Four had protested, arguing that the attack had been beyond Team One’s control. Holleran acknowledged the argument, then steam-rolled over it; Team One knew the most about magic, they _should’ve_ been able to protect themselves from the _Imperius_.

Only Team One knew the _real_ reason was a very much alive Greg Parker – and their own flat _refusal_ to leave their miraculously _alive_ boss alone. For the first two days, the team had been on a rotation, never leaving their Sergeant by himself – Sam and Jules had been _indignant_ when Ed refused to let them stay overnight until cleared by the Healers. Although he really should’ve added Spike to that list; the bomb tech had won the Rock, Paper, Scissors contest for who got to stay the first night…then ended up sleeping the whole night through, much to his chagrin the next morning.

“He woke up,” Wordy replied, voice just as low.

Relief blasted through Ed and he had to turn away to hide the intensity of his emotions. Keeping the truth from Sophie and Clark was _killing_ him, but once Greg was _safe_ , he could tell them. Let them share in his joy to have his _brother_ back. With a rough nod, the Sergeant turned back to his team leader. “How’s he doing?”

Gray flickered. “He panicked,” Wordy explained flatly. “Once he realized it was me, he calmed down. I saw him shivering, too, but the room’s not that cold.” The big constable paused, then sighed and let his shoulders slump. “Ed…he’s having trouble talking.”

“Trouble _talking_?” Ed echoed, confusion plain. “What, is his throat ripped up?”

Wordy shook his head. “No, he can _talk_ ,” the brunet insisted, hands flexing and gesturing in unconscious emphasis. “But…” The constable stopped, scowling as he tried to frame his explanation. “It’s…it’s like he forgot how to speak English. Nothing’s garbled, but it’s like trying to decode half a cipher or something.”

“What else?” Ed asked, watching his friend closely. Wordy was upset, even if he was doing his best to hide it. The sniper could sympathize – Greg’s physical state was bad enough, but the thought of _psychological_ damage…that was nightmare inducing.

The big man’s expression tightened, Wordy almost at war with himself over something, then he huffed and absently rubbed at his buzz cut. It had grown out a bit more than usual, leaving the brunet with enough hair to displace. Finally, gray eyes closed. “He, ah, he wanted you to tell me something.”

“About?” Ed prodded.

A faint shrug. “Some spot on his back…that has to do with his gryphon form?” Curiosity rang, backed by an inquisitive glance.

Ed stiffened. “Just you?”

“Everyone,” Wordy replied. A beat, then, “And, um, Ed?”

The Sergeant stiffened even further, scenting a bombshell he _wasn’t_ going to like. “Yeah?”

“He doesn’t want the kids to know he’s alive.”

Ed was vaguely aware of his jaw dropping open and the feel of his eyes bugging out.

“Yeah, that’s about how I reacted,” Wordy said, tone rueful. “Told him that Castor Troy’s dead, but he didn’t care. Made me promise not to tell them.”

His jaw _clicked_ shut. “You _promised_?” he hissed.

Wordy nodded. “Ed, he was frantic. And he _wants_ to see them, I could tell, but he still insisted on them staying away.”

The tactician’s brain ground back into gear. “Something’s up,” he concluded.

“That’s what I figure.” Wordy dropped his voice as low as he could. “Sarge knows _something_ we don’t. Maybe he doesn’t even remember what he knows, but he knows it.”

Ed frowned, turning the situation over in his mind. “Wordy…Holleran said Troy had a _thing_ for families…”

“And that’s why Sarge’s kids had to be with me ASAP,” Wordy finished. “To keep Castor Troy from realizing they existed.”

“What if it wasn’t _just_ Troy we had to hide them from?” Lane ventured. It was a frightening thought – and the _possibility_ was enough for Ed to second his boss’s decision. The kids were going to _hate_ them, but at least they’d be _alive_ to hate the team. “Okay, Holleran asks, we say it was Greg’s call.”

“Copy,” Wordy acknowledged quietly.

“Go get the others; might as well do it all at once.”

“In his room?” Wordy asked.

Ed nodded. “Wordy, I don’t doubt you, but this… I need to ask myself.”

Wordy’s expression softened. “Copy that, Boss.”

* * * * *

Neal was inside the small room when Ed arrived, slathering on the next round of potions and whistling to himself as he worked. Lane paused, leaning against the door frame so he could observe. Parker was awake and the sniper could see his friend’s hands had already been treated; Greg had managed to position himself so he could watch Neal working on the soles of his feet, resting on his arm, palm up. The other arm hung free, palm turned away from the bed.

In the relative silence, Ed considered the young Auror. Neal had taken his father’s assignment seriously, turning up three times a day with the prescribed potions. There was no sign of the sleeping potion, but the whole team had known that was only for the first two days. An empty vial of nutrient potion sat on a chest high conjured table about a meter away from the bed; next to it was a squat jar of the paste-like potion intended for Greg’s hands; Neal had the final jar in hand, though he looked to be about done with the latest application. It really made Ed wonder why the young wizard had given up becoming a Healer in favor of being an Auror.

“Oh.” Neal blinked at his unexpected company. “Sergeant Lane. I’ll just…”

Ed held up a hand and moved into the room. “Go ahead and finish up, Neal, it’s okay.” As the young Auror nevertheless bustled through the last of his task, the sniper strode to Greg’s side, automatically dropping his hand to his friend’s shoulder. The gaunt man didn’t speak, though his smile and the way hazel lit up spoke volumes all by themselves. In short order, they were alone and the conjured table had vanished back into nothingness.

“Eddie.”

“Hey, Boss, how you doing?” Ed asked, squeezing Greg’s shoulder and doing his best to not flinch at the rasp in his friend’s voice.

Greg’s brow furrowed, expression twisting before he spoke, each word slow and halting. “I…home… Glad…” He stopped, frustration blazing.

“Easy, Greg, easy,” Ed coached, finally understanding what Wordy had been trying to tell him. “It’s only been what, three days? Give yourself a break.”

“Need…words…”

“And they’ll come, buddy,” Lane murmured, letting his intensity show. “We got time.” He released Greg’s shoulder and crouched, meeting hazel squarely. “Greg. Are you sure you want them to know?”

The other Sergeant didn’t misunderstand. He returned the stare and nodded. “Eddie. All…of it…” Frustration shone again. “Too…many…secrets…”

Ed sighed. “Greg, time and place. I’ll tell them about that little discovery we made, but I’m _not_ telling them about the…other stuff.” He hesitated, then confessed, “I wouldn’t even know how to explain it right.”

For a long minute, both men regarded each other, then Greg inclined his head. “Show…them?”

The lean sniper didn’t like it, but as he gazed back at his friend, his brother-by-heart, he saw the telltale signs of a man in pain. “You could have asked Neal for another pain potion,” Ed chided, but his heart wasn’t in it. He knew why Greg hadn’t.

“Ed?”

The men craned around, then Ed tilted his head, inviting Jules and Sam in. Wordy, Spike, and Lou caught up a few seconds later; the team leader closed the door after them, then Team One ranged around their Sergeants as Ed helped Greg lay flat on the bed, careful not to touch his hands or jar them against anything.

Done, Ed straightened, though he dropped one hand down to his boss’s back. “Okay…as everyone can see, the Boss is back with us.”

Greg twitched a smile as their teammates let out a quiet cheer.

“Three days in and with any luck, only four more to go,” Ed added. A brief frown. “But just so we’re all on the same page, Greg’s made the call to keep the kids in the dark for now. _Later_ ,” he added at the instinctive protests forming.

The four constables subsided, but Jules cocked her head to the side. “Ed? Something else up?”

Sighing, Ed nodded. “Guys, we’re gonna take this slow, but…” He grimaced, mentally flailing for the best words…and silently cursing Greg’s unexpected disability. “Short version, there’s been some…”

“Secret keeping?” Wordy suggested lightly.

The Sergeant’s second grimace confirmed the suggestion. “Yeah.” A hesitation. “Too much for one go, team.”

Lou cleared his throat. “Ed, I think we _all_ knew that.”

Next to him, Spike nodded somberly. “Boss’s been turtling in for awhile.”

“Had to be something goin’ on,” Sam finished.

Abashed, Ed was about to speak again when a sudden thought jabbed. Blue narrowed and he cast a glance down at Greg. “Okay, I was gonna start with one of the _smaller_ ones…but…” The sniper waited until his friend glanced up, surprised at the pointed halt. “Greg, why didn’t you ever call for help?”

“After the fire,” Wordy tacked on, following Ed’s train of thought. “Why walk all the way home when you could’ve just used the ‘team sense’?”

Understanding bloomed, coupled with shame and dismay. “Couldn’t,” Greg croaked out. Remembered helplessness shone in hazel eyes. “I…tried…” For an instant, hazel blinked closed. “Tried…to shift…first…” A cringe. “Couldn’t…hurt.” Tears leaked down. “Hurt…so _much_ …”

Ed’s jaw fell open in horror. “Wait a minute. The _collar_ that wouldn’t let you transform… _that’s_ why you couldn’t call for help?”

A rough, jerky nod.

“And it _hurt_ you?” Sam blurted, equal horror ringing.

Frustration blazed and Ed knew they were missing something. Instinctively, he moved his hand from the back of the sweatshirt Greg was wearing to the base of his neck, palm touching bare skin. As soon as he made contact, the ‘team sense’, dormant for over four _months_ , roared back to life within him. Beneath him, he felt Greg jerk.

_‘Eddie?’_ Mixed guilt and hope rang in the mental voice.

_‘I hear you, Boss.’_ Ed pulled his hand back. “Guys, one at a time.” At their confused looks, he sighed. “We’ve had him back three days, but the ‘team sense’ still isn’t working.” He indicated the back of Greg’s neck. “Until now.”

It took a minute, then Sam took a half-step back, understanding glimmering in blue eyes. He moved forward, but reached for Greg’s arm instead of his back. Ed watched as the blond made contact, a flare of silver and scarlet dancing around his fingers for an instant. His teammates followed and Ed marveled silently at the simplicity of the solution. Skin-to-skin contact…so absurdly _simple_ – and how the third incarnation of the ‘team sense’ had been established in the _first_ place.

Greg twitched at each touch, yet Ed could feel his friend’s relief. Once the ‘team sense’ was fully ‘online’, the Sergeant arched a brow. _‘Greg?’_

_‘I’m here, Eddie.’_

Ed nearly collapsed in relief. Whatever _physical_ problems Greg was having, his mind was fully intact, if struggling to readjust. They could deal with that, no problem. He forced his own mental voice to stay even and level. _‘You wanna try that again, buddy?’_

The moment hung, then Greg jerked a nod. _‘Fair enough, Eddie.’_ Turning his attention to the whole team, he said, _‘Ed and Sam are right. The collar kept me from shifting back and from being able to communicate.’_ A deep breath. _‘When I first woke up, I tried to shift back three times.’_ A cringe and Ed felt a surge of foreign panic; from the winces, his teammates felt the same panic. _‘I didn’t try again after that.’_

_‘What about when you tried to reach us?’_ Wordy asked anxiously. _‘Did it hurt you then?’_

Parker shook his head. _‘No, it didn’t. I…I thought it might, but it just…’_ Frustration shone. _‘I could tell you were all still alive and I knew you guys were a_ really _long way away from me, but… It was like trying to talk on a busted comm.’_

The form beneath his hand was tensing once more and Ed deliberately started rubbing Greg’s sweet spot, the movement slow, but firm and steady. Out loud, he murmured, “Easy, buddy, easy. We hear you.”

In a soft, stricken tone, Sam whispered, “You _had_ to come to _us_ …because we thought you were dead and we weren’t even looking…”

“Sam, even if we _had_ known, what could we have done about it?” Jules asked, unhappy, but practical. “Sarge was in _Colorado_ ; we would’ve started looking _here_ , in Toronto.”

“Standard search pattern,” Lou agreed, just as unhappy.

“Ed, what are you doing?” Wordy asked suddenly, drawing all attention back to the two Sergeants.

Ed kept rubbing, amused that Wordy had caught onto what he was doing so quickly. Beneath him, Greg was relaxing, steadily dropping towards falling asleep.

_‘Eddie…’_

The movement slowed and halted at the mix of plea and order in Greg’s mental voice. “Back on track, Boss?”

_‘I’m not your boss any more, Eddie,’_ Greg chided, relaxed and sleepy, but still awake enough to follow the conversation.

Ed tisked. “You and Holleran.” Very gently, he rapped his friend’s skull. “Get it through your head, Greg. You’re Team One. We don’t _care_ what lies IS made you tell us, you are _still_ SRU and you are _still_ on _our_ team.”

Spike twitched a smirk. “What Ed said,” he agreed.

“Sarge?” Wordy asked, “You up for that little secret or…” A pause and a fidget. “Sarge, if you need a break, we can do that.”

Murmurs of agreement came from the others, but Ed caught the telltale signs of the infamous Parker stubborn streak in Greg’s tensing shoulders and the determination on his face. He huffed and shook his head. “And you call _me_ stubborn, Parker.”

_‘Of course I do, Eddie,’_ came the immediate tease.

Ed rolled his eyes. “Okay, guys, gotta backtrack some.” Without waiting for them to respond, he pointed at Spike. “Scarlatti, you remember that hot call way before Fletcher Stadium?” At the bomb tech’s blank look, he prodded, “South side, easy warrant…?”

Spike cringed. “Yeah, you guys went in, but Sarge and I got jumped.”

It had been a mess, no two ways about it; the subjects had lived thanks to Greg calling in _Healers_ rather than EMS, but they’d had to be _Obliviated_ and only the fact that Parker hadn’t had a _clue_ he could hit that hard kept him out of trouble.

* * * * *

_“Eddie, I nearly_ killed _them,” Greg whispered, anguish shining in hazel eyes as he sat, almost huddled up on the locker room bench._

_Ed didn’t reply, just stayed by his friend and tried to_ think _. Every member of the team knew hand-to-hand, but his boss had always been the weakest of the team in that respect, dependent on his words and his sidearm in a pinch. He knew enough to meet SRU regs, but it was the_ team’s _job to protect the negotiator, so Greg had never_ needed _to improve on that weaker area of his professional life._

_Until raw Animagus strength had turned the Boss into a near-lethal combatant. The Healers hadn’t been happy; the damage to all three men was bad enough that once they finally got released from St. Mungo’s, they’d be heading to jail minus about a week of memories._ Greg _had done that, singlehandedly and without breaking a sweat._

Think, Lane, _think_. _There had to be a way; it wasn’t_ Greg’s _fault that he had the same physical strength as a full grown gryphon, but if he couldn’t hold back… More than a bit not good. An idea prodded and the officer frowned. “Greg?”_

_His friend stiffened, then glanced over. “Ed?”_

_“What if…what if you learn how to fight?”_

_One eyebrow arched. “Eddie, I_ know _how to fight.”_

_“You know the basics,” Ed corrected. “I’m sayin’, let’s see what you can do, push you as far as we can – and then we figure out how you_ don’t _go all out.”_

_Hazel darkened. “Ed, I don’t want to hurt you.”_

_The sniper returned his friend’s worried gaze with near perfect calm. “And I’d rather not end up with broken bones. That’s what we’ve got wizards for, Greg. They’ve gotta have training dummies or_ something _we can use.”_

* * * * *

Spike’s jaw hung open and the rest of the team wasn’t all that far behind. They’d all known that particular call had been a mess, but only Ed and Greg had known about the three near fatalities. After a moment, Spike managed to clear his throat and ask, “So that’s why you and the Boss made sure the Command Truck was always near unis and patrol cars after that?”

Ed nodded, glad the raven had caught on. “Yeah, Spike. We sure didn’t want a repeat – especially since _you_ got a cracked skull.” He sucked in a breath. “Even on an easy call, we shouldn’t have left you two unguarded anyway, Spike. It was stupid and we were lucky no one died.”

Somber nods went ‘round the room. Sam leaned forward, undeniable interest in his eyes. “So, did it work?”

The Sergeant returned the blond’s gaze and nodded once. “Took a lot of work,” he admitted ruefully. “Sometimes it was one step forward, two steps back, especially when Greg and I got to the point where we started sparring…”

* * * * *

_Ed bit back a slew of swears as he knelt next to Greg._ Right _in the middle of a swing, his boss had panicked, trying to stop his own punch. He’d done it;_ how _, Ed hadn’t a clue, but from the way his friend had collapsed immediately afterwards, the sniper had a nasty feeling that Greg had thrown his back out._

_Gently, he reached out, prodding at Parker’s back and wincing at the soft keens coming from the other man. “Easy, Boss, it’s okay,” he murmured. When Parker could only manage another whimper, Ed frowned. “Greg? Need me to get a Healer?”_

_Greg shook his head frantically and Ed swallowed a sigh. If_ only _his boss wasn’t so darn_ stubborn _. The rest of the team_ should _know about what was going on, but Greg had_ begged _him to keep quiet, shame lacing every word as he refused to look up. Ed knew he could go get the on-duty Healer, but if he did that, Holleran would find out. The team would find out._

_Shaking his head, Ed muttered, “Okay, you asked for it, then, Greg.” Gingerly, he felt his way down the Sergeant’s back, searching for what was wrong. A hand-span from the top, he stopped, feeling a lump of_ something _, clearly out of place. Rationality shrieked, but Ed ignored it, adjusting his position to cautiously rub at the spot, trying to get a better idea of what he’d found._

_To his surprise, Greg relaxed underneath his touch, tension draining as Ed kept rubbing. The lump slipped back down and into place, drawing a slight shudder from the stocky man, but as the team leader kept up, the Sergeant continued to relax._

_“Greg? That better?”_

_His only reply was an indistinct mumble; alarmed, Ed quickly checked the rest of Greg’s back, but there was nothing else out of place. It took a minute, but his friend stirred, almost as if he’d…as if he’d_ fallen asleep!

_Startled, Ed asked, “Greg? You okay?”_

_A mutter, a murmur, then Greg shifted, discreetly stretching. A quiet, but matter-of-fact, “Oww,” drew a snicker. The Sergeant rolled his shoulders, then pushed himself up a bit, testing his back. “Thanks, Eddie.”_

* * * * *

Ed ignored the incredulous looks he and Greg were getting, though he felt his friend shifting in embarrassment underneath his hand. “We tested that spot a couple more times,” he explained, determined to finish the explanation so they could move on and pretend he’d never said anything about their boss’s, ahem, weak point. “Even when he tried, Greg could never stay awake for more than a minute.” A shrug. “We finally pulled Lance in.”

“So _that’s_ why,” Wordy muttered. In the background, Ed smirked as the rest of the team swung to their team leader. The brunet offered a shrug of his own. “Sarge said something about his gryphon form.” He turned back to Ed. “Am I right? It’s his Animagus form?”

The Sergeant inclined his head. “Hole in one,” he agreed. “It’s small and subtle, but that spot, right between his wings…it’s right about where a gryphlet would get picked up, just like a lion cub.” Deliberately, he reached down, rubbing at the sweet spot. Greg didn’t protest and it took less than thirty seconds before he was asleep. Without stopping, Ed added, “About the other thing. He doesn’t like to talk about it much, but he probably could’ve taken Collins out that day at the stadium.”

“Then why didn’t he?” Sam demanded.

Lou shook his head. “Sam, I bet he didn’t wanna accidentally kill the guy. Even if it meant he ended up where he did.”

“That’s right, Lou,” Ed confirmed. “Once the Boss is back on his feet again, I’ll see if I can talk him into adding you guys to the sparring roster.” He grinned at the askance looks. “I might’ve been the teacher at first, but his gryphon side…” An awed, remembering shake of the head. “…his gryphon side knows how to _fight_. Once we got that instinct to kick in, he was beating me nine times outta ten. Never left me with anything more than bruises.” The Sergeant left out that he’d picked up more than a few tricks in the process. His teammates were smart; they’d figure that out.

Spike whistled, but held up one hand, counting on his fingers. “So…that’s what, three secrets, all before lunchtime?”

His fellow constables snickered and Ed dropped his chin, trying not to laugh. Trust Spike to lighten the mood. “Sounds about right,” he concurred. Bringing his head up, he met his teammates’ gazes. “All of you okay with this? Taking it slow?”

They traded glances, then Jules replied, “Ed, we’re okay.” She smiled, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. “At least you’re telling us now.”

Respect warmed his veins; they’d _known_ he and Greg were holding back, but they’d kept quiet. Not pushing, just offering the same trust that had gotten all of them through the past five years. Appreciation shone, along with a touch of chagrin. “Yeah, we’re telling you now,” Ed whispered, wishing, in his heart of hearts, that they hadn’t waited so long.

“Ed.” All attention swung to Sam, the blond sniper’s expression serious. “He wasn’t ready. We get that.” A tiny smile emerged. “We’re just glad he told _you_.”

The tall, lean sniper had to duck his head to hide the sudden lump in his throat. “Copy,” he murmured. For a beat, he closed his eyes, then he glanced up again. “Okay. Who’s up on rotation?”

“Me.”

“Me.”

The computer techs promptly glared at each other and their teammates sniggered. Ed’s free hand covered his mouth to conceal the smile. He was about to speak when the door banged open.

Team One whirled, reflexively reaching for their weapons before they registered Commander Holleran’s presence. The SRU commander’s face was ashen.

“Sir?” Ed demanded, heart pounding.

Holleran’s throat worked, then he whispered, “They know.”


	3. One Last Ride

It was a nightmare, it had to be. Ed sharply gestured for his teammates to stay with the Boss and pushed Holleran back out the door. Over his shoulder, he snapped, “Wordy!”

“Copy,” the team leader acknowledged, catching the unspoken order. _Keep their Sergeant asleep._

Once he and Holleran were outside, Ed hissed, “What do you mean, _they know_? We haven’t told _anyone_ , not even the kids.”

The commander shook his head. “The report, Lane, it has to be.”

“What…what do you mean?”

The older man met Ed’s gaze, steady even through his distress. “The preliminary report made it clear, Ed. Two bodies, one male, one _female_. At that point, it was obvious that either Parker or Troy had survived the fire.”

“Right,” Ed murmured. “And you thought it was Troy who survived, ‘cause Greg never checked in.”

Holleran nodded. “That’s the assumption I worked on until the final report came in a few days ago.”

The Sergeant stiffened. “Sir? How soon after the report did you call Team Three in?”

A rueful smile. “That same day, Ed.”

Part of him had suspected, but to have it confirmed… Ed swayed at how _fast_ things had moved. The _same_ day he’d almost died, the _same_ day Greg had come home…that was when his commander had found out Greg was still _alive_. Forcing himself back to the immediate issue, the sniper focused on his commander. “They made the same assumption as you did?”

“That’s my suspicion,” the older man replied. “When the final report came back…” He frowned, thinking hard.

“You called Team Three in one day, then us the next day,” Ed mused. “Might’ve made it look like you knew something and maybe were trying to cover it up.” Tense shoulders relaxed. “Sir, I don’t think they _know_ , I think they’re guessing and they’re trying to call your bluff.”

The commander didn’t smile. “Lane, if they’re just _guessing_ , they’ve got one heck of a way of doing it.”

“Sir?”

Commander Holleran sighed heavily. “The mayor’s office is threatening to send your brother undercover in Parker’s place if Parker isn’t downtown in an hour.”

Ed froze in horror. To send Roy undercover was one thing, but… “They want _Roy_ to be _Elias_?” he hissed. “Are they _nuts_?” Send a tall, lean, full-haired, _younger_ man undercover in place of the average sized, stocky, partially bald – and older – Greg Parker?

“They’re only crazy if it doesn’t work, Sergeant,” Holleran pointed out. “They want Parker and they’re clearly not above blackmail if they think it will work.”

Dammit. If Greg found out _after_ the fact that Ed had risked Roy’s life for _his_ sake… All of a sudden, Ed was regretting the whole let’s-be-honest, no-more-secrets strategy. How was he supposed to choose one brother over the other? If Roy found out he’d been put on the line when Ed _knew_ Greg was alive… But at the same time, Greg was a _mess_ …if he was sent undercover again, he wouldn’t survive. _Roy_ at least was able-bodied and experienced in undercover operations. Even with two months deep undercover under his belt, Greg was primarily SRU; Roy had breathed Guns ‘n’ Gangs for the majority of his career.

To decide either way was to choose near-certain death for a member of his family. Swallowing hard, Ed met his superior’s gaze. “Can we stop this?” A faint, hopeful whisper. An unspoken plea that he wouldn’t have to choose, wouldn’t have to decide who lived and who died.

“Sergeant, I wish we could,” Holleran replied, the same grief in his eyes. “But it’s not your call, Ed.”

Inwardly, Ed swore a blue streak; outwardly, he closed his eyes and turned away, refusing to finish his superior’s thought. Refusing to acknowledge what he knew was coming.

Sadly for him, Holleran completed his sentence. “It’s Greg’s call.”

* * * * *

Greg listened, expression grave, as Commander Holleran laid out the facts and the threat from the mayor’s office to send Detective Roy Lane undercover in his place. Self-preservation was loudly insisting that he stay hidden and leave Roy to handle the fallout. The most selfish parts of his soul agreed, opining that he’d done _more_ than enough, it was time to worry about _himself_ for once. But at heart, Greg was still a cop, still a Sergeant, and still a leader. Roy wouldn’t last a day if he tried to claim _he_ was the mysterious, elusive Carl Elias.

“Boss, it could be a bluff,” Ed suggested as soon as Holleran was done. “Maybe they suspect you’re alive, but I don’t think they _know_. Not unless we fold.”

The Sergeant closed his eyes. And if Ed was wrong? What then? But…how _could_ he do it? Physically, he was a _mess_. Couldn’t walk, couldn’t use his hands, and couldn’t talk. He _needed_ time to recover – but he wasn’t going to get that time. Not if he wanted to protect his friend’s brother.

In the background, the links pulsed, his teammates – _former_ teammates – just as uncertain as he was. To leave _Roy_ to take the fall for him, it felt wrong, completely unjust and utterly unfair. Greg looked down at his hands, turning them over to regard the potion-coated palms. His feet were just as bad and he wasn’t even _supposed_ to wear shoes for another few weeks. And while Ed and Wordy had been able to decipher his currently broken English, he couldn’t expect Elias’s men to be so understanding. Not even Anthony.

“Greg.” He glanced up, taking in the mix of distress and determination on Ed’s face. “You’ve done enough, buddy,” his fellow Sergeant insisted. “We’ll find a way and there’s no _way_ Giles will let Roy go undercover without him.” The smirk was almost savage. “I _pity_ the idiot who tries to whack Roy in front of Giles.”

“Ed’s right, Boss,” Jules agreed. “Giles can watch Roy’s back until we get you out of IS. You already sacrificed four months of your life to bring Castor Troy down. Let _us_ handle the rest, all right?”

At the reluctance on his face, Lou crossed his arms. “Seriously, Boss, how many times does it have to be _you_?”

“Give the rest of us a turn,” Spike agreed instantly. “I mean, we don’t have magic superpowers…” Snickers interrupted him and Greg cast the bomb tech a narrow-eyed glare. “…but we can fight dragons, too.”

Sam cleared his throat as the rest of Team One broke out into fresh snickers. “Boss. You went through _hell_ ; you really wanna do it all over again?”

No, no he didn’t, but to let one of his guys down… Something else stirred, instinct and his sixth sense murmuring. A feeling of dread, nebulous, but distinct enough to know that Roy was just the first threat. Greg held up a hand to keep his friends quiet, frowning as he sought to pin down what was causing that elusive _feeling_. The answer tugged at the edge of his mind, but failed to surface.

Mentally, the Sergeant reached out, calling on his magic and the links as he sought to temporarily override his…disability. “Sir?” he asked, forming each word with care. “Who contacted…you?”

Commander Holleran frowned. “The representative from the mayor’s office is Geb Romulus.”

Greg’s scalp prickled. He’d never heard that name in his _life_ , but his sixth sense was suddenly on high alert. Why? Wasn’t Romulus a Roman surname… The Sergeant froze, realization slamming into him with all the force of a nuclear bomb. “I’m going.”

“Boss?”

“Sergeant?”

“Greg?”

Determination flared, obstinate willpower burning through mere human _frailty_. “Sir, I’m going to need shoes. And my sidearm.”

* * * * *

Sergeant Gregory Parker didn’t speak, either aloud or through the ‘team sense’, as his commander led the way to the mayor’s office. He was too busy clamping down on the urge to scream with every jarring, painful step forward. Too busy doing his best to keep from transmitting his distress to his former teammates, all of whom were hovering and all of whom had _refused_ , point-blank, to be left behind.

Despite his own exhaustion and pain, Greg knew what he was doing. He could – and _was_ – hiding his physical infirmities; his magic, plus his links to his friends, was managing to overcome his current inability to speak proper English. It was an artificial solution, but so long as it worked, Parker refused to care what price he’d be paying at the end of this latest mess.

He’d argued for SRU boots at first, but his commander had _insisted_ on sneakers – which was exactly what Greg had wanted _anyway_. The negotiator had been careful to keep his triumphant smirk off his face. Not the smirk had lasted much beyond the first few steps or the new Glock 17 that sat in the holster on his hip. Although the pistol he’d worn into his battle with the Troy siblings was still operational, it was currently sealed inside an evidence bag and Greg doubted he would ever get it back. He was wearing his old uniform and yet, just like his human form, it didn’t seem to _fit_ anymore. Not just physically either, though the fabric draped over him in an overlarge fashion that felt like he’d put on a shirt at least two sizes too big.

“Ah, Commander Holleran.”

Greg shifted sideways, ducking just a bit behind Ed and Wordy to regard the polished, immaculate brunet in a three-piece suit and dark-purple tie. Shrewd brown eyes regarded the officers from behind silver circular lenses and a wire thin frame. The man’s face was narrow, almost angular, with a wary undertone to his stance and movements. As the negotiator studied the other man, he also saw telltale signs of stress and the same long-term grief his friends were still struggling with. It only confirmed his suspicions – and in turn his next course of action.

“Mr. Romulus,” Holleran replied, though he spoke through gritted teeth.

The brunet sniffed dismissively, pulling a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. One hand removed his glasses and he focused on polishing miniscule specks of dust from them. Without looking at the officers, he remarked, “I see you found it necessary to bring your vaunted _Team One_ along. Hardly necessary; I’ve arranged for Sergeant Parker’s new handler to join us, so I’ll take it from here.”

His former teammates bristled, closing around Greg in an openly protective fashion. Commander Holleran bristled as well, glaring through his own glasses at Romulus, shoulders tensing as he regarded the bureaucrat. The negotiator ignored the bristling and posturing, keeping his focus on the smug brunet; the other man sported a tiny smile as he inspected his glasses and perched them back on his nose, pleased with the officers’ response to his gauntlet.

“Commander, if you and Team One can spare the time, I would appreciate the company.” Not backup, company. Greg kept his expression still and unconcerned, returning Romulus’ narrow regard with a bland façade. “Mr. Romulus,” the negotiator added quietly. “Given what happened with my _last_ handler, _if_ I go undercover again, I’ll be continuing to make regular reports to Commander Holleran.” He paused, noting the automatic tense, a brief frown before Romulus’ expression smoothed out again.

“Of course, Sergeant Parker,” the bureaucrat conceded, gesturing to a nearby office. “Perhaps you could brief myself and your new handler on your last confrontation with Castor Troy?” A glitter of something flew through his eyes. “Your… _fellow officers_ …may _join_ us.”

Greg inclined his chin, never allowing his own expression to twitch. That glitter…it had been pure _hate_.

* * * * *

Inside the office, Greg eyed the tall, powerfully-built man waiting for them. The bald black man with a carefully shaped beard and mustache wasn’t dressed as a police officer, but then, Brenda hadn’t dressed like a cop either. Rather than a uniform, the stranger wore a loose white shirt with an open collar and black dress pants that ended in professional black loafers. Parker had little doubt that his ‘new handler’ could fit into any place he desired, like a chameleon. It was a good trait for an undercover officer, but the negotiator’s suspicions made him…uneasy.

“Sergeant Parker,” Romulus fairly purred, “Meet Detective Tito Biondi, your new handler.”

The self-satisfied tone sent a frisson of alarm up Greg’s back, but he merely inclined his head in greeting, maintaining his even expression with an ease he never could’ve managed before two months as a gryphon. His calm was at odds with his former team’s growing indignation and Commander Holleran’s well-hidden, but very present outrage.

“Now wait just a minute,” Holleran growled. “The paperwork to transfer Sergeant Parker back to the SRU…”

“Is incomplete,” Romulus interrupted, a flash of triumph in dark eyes. “Sergeant Parker is still assigned to Intelligence Services, Commander Holleran.” A sneer emerged. “More than that, Commander, the transfer back to the SRU was authorized on the _assumption_ that Sergeant Parker had perished in the fire.” He shifted back on his heels, self-satisfaction reappearing. “Object all you want, it makes no difference. We’ll debrief Sergeant Parker today and put him back undercover by tomorrow.”

“Not necessarily, Geb.”

All eyes turned to the door and Greg cocked his head to the side in lieu of raising an eyebrow. Mayor Dickerson stood in the doorway, flanked by Doctor Larry Toth. Toth returned Greg’s stare, both brows rising in ill-concealed shock. The negotiator broke the stare first, shame and embarrassment rising at how so _many_ people had been affected by his apparent death. He knew he couldn’t have done anything differently, not with the information he’d had at the time, but regret lapped at him regardless.

“Your Worship,” Romulus murmured, “I apologize that you’ve been disturbed; I have the matter well in hand.”

The mayor ignored that, stepping further into the room to focus on Greg. “It’s been quite some time, Sergeant Parker.”

“Yes, sir,” Greg agreed; internally, he braced himself, refusing to outwardly flinch as he shook the other man’s hand.

The politician smiled, genial yet shrewd and cunning. “Shall we take this to my office, Geb? I believe the situation is quite a bit more complex than it seems.”

Romulus wasn’t happy, but he really had no way to protest without angering his boss. “Of course, Mr. Mayor,” he agreed.

* * * * *

Greg sank into a chair, struggling to restrain a sigh of relief as the weight left his fragile, ravaged feet. In the back of his mind, magic pulsed, his friends’ support essential to his current level of functioning. Without the links, he would still be flat on his stomach and Roy _would_ have had to deal with Romulus’ plotting and Biondi’s assessing gaze. He returned that assessing gaze with apparent unconcern, but in reality, his stomach churned. Even with his negotiator training, _ordinarily_ , he would have been hard pressed to hide all his emotions, but after two months in his Animagus form, Greg no longer _remembered_ how to show emotion. A part of him fretted over that, but the rest of him had more important things to worry about.

His former team was still hovering around him, doing their best to shield him from the two unknowns in the equation, but Greg subtly signaled them to stand down. If Romulus and Biondi saw him as _weak_ , it wouldn’t lead to anything good. No, he _needed_ to appear strong, much stronger than he was in truth, if he was to prevail in this unexpected and unwelcome challenge to his homecoming. Backing down was not an option and neither was hiding away, much as he wanted to.

Maintaining his outward unconcern, the Sergeant turned his attention to Mayor Dickerson, noting that Dr. Toth had settled in a chair much closer to the mayor than Romulus had. Both men were stiff and professional, but Dickerson leaned more towards Toth than his own assistant. The negotiator didn’t have all the background, but he suspected the mayor was none too happy with his assistant. Whether that unhappiness had anything to do with _his_ situation remained to be seen, but it was something to keep in mind.

“Sergeant Parker,” the mayor began; Greg straightened under the man’s attention, struggling to shape his expression into intent interest – he _felt_ that interest, but _showing_ it… Again, Parker’s insides twisted, regret knifing at the loss of his _human_ traits to those two months of gryphon existence. “Dr. Toth has been lobbying my office for some months on your behalf.”

“Even after I was presumed dead, sir?” Greg asked, caught off guard. Yes, Toth had agreed to become one of his backup handlers, but given their prior antagonism…well, he never would’ve expected _Toth_ to be lobbying the mayor for _his_ benefit.

Dickerson smiled ever so slightly. “That’s correct, Sergeant.” The smile dropped away. “I wasn’t aware of your initial transfer, Sergeant Parker.”

Parker sat straight up, muscles tensing as he absorbed the mayor’s admission. If the mayor hadn’t _known_ about his transfer, how could he have signed off on it? A quick gesture kept his former team quiet. “Sir? Does that mean my entire assignment was…” He paused, searching for the right word. “…illegitimate?”

The politician shook his head. “No, Sergeant, the transfer itself was authorized by my office and the Police Commissioner signed off on it. The same is true of the gag order.”

Team One bristled, only for the mayor to cast them a quelling glare. “Let me finish!” he ordered. He cast a glare of his own at Romulus. “Of course, if I had been _aware_ that the gag order forced you into _lying_ to your own _family_ as well as your former teammates…” He let the sentence trail off, disapproval evident.

Romulus ducked his head, but countered, “It was necessary, Your Worship. If Castor Troy had had any inkling…”

Dickerson’s hand slammed down on his desk, a heavy scowl appearing. “Stop it, Geb. You know and I know that the gag order went _well_ beyond what was necessary to ensure Sergeant Parker’s safety.”

“One could argue the gag order itself laid the framework for the fire,” Toth murmured. “Cut off from his former team and _barred_ from telling them the truth, Sergeant Parker had no one left to call upon once Commander Holleran was shot.”

“Particularly given that Sergeant Parker’s Intelligence Services handler was Troy’s _sister_ ,” Commander Holleran cut in.

“Very true,” Mayor Dickerson conceded, eyeing his assistant with a rather jaded eye.

“Sir!” the polished assistant protested. “I was in no way aware of Detective Kastor’s background, I assure you!”

The mayor harrumphed, but moved on. “Sergeant, in light of your history of distinguished service, as well as all the factors Dr. Toth has brought to my attention regarding your undercover assignment and its effects on the Strategic Response Unit, I have decided to put the choice of what happens next in _your_ hands.” He brought a hand up before anyone could speak. “Initially, I confess, Sergeant, I considered two options as regards to your situation. Neither would have returned you to the SRU as an _active_ police officer, something Dr. Toth has made it clear you might prefer, so I have added a third choice in regards to that.”

Pausing, the graying blond surveyed his audience. “Your first option, Sergeant, is retirement,” the mayor began, quelling every last objection with a well-practiced glare. “Full benefits and a pension that reflects your years of service.” The politician smiled. “Perhaps, in a year or so, you might consider teaching at the Academy.”

Nice and neat, Greg knew. Shuffled off the job with thanks, perhaps a medal, and there would be no further issues. It might even be for the best. He could focus on recovering and being with his kids. Didn’t he deserve that? No more fighting the magical world, doing his best to balance his duties as an Auror _and_ a police officer. And Eddie already had Team One well in hand. Everything he might have taught his former team leader about being a Sergeant, Ed had learned on the job. Under less than ideal conditions, true, but he’d learned.

Parker cocked his head to the side, internally throttling the gryphon trill bubbling up in his chest. “This is the solution you favor, sir?”

Mayor Dickerson nodded. “It is, Sergeant.” He spread his hands. “To simply send you back to the SRU, that leaves the implication that your transfer was underhanded and illegitimate.”

“It was!” Ed burst out. “So was forcing Greg to _lie_ to us!”

“Sergeant Lane, be quiet,” Toth snapped.

The mayor shook his head, focusing on Greg. “I cannot have the impression that I cannot control my office and my people.”

Indignation burned in his chest, but Greg’s expression remained perfectly steady. “Yes, Your Worship,” he murmured. Hazel turned intent. “If that’s my first option, sir, what are my other options?”

Mayor Dickerson nodded thoughtfully. Discreetly, he indicated Romulus. “Your second option is the one Geb advocates. Your transfer out of the Strategic Response Unit would be considered a done deal; you would never again be a member of the unit. You return to your undercover assignment until Intelligence Services deems it complete. At that time, I imagine you would be offered either another assignment or retirement.”

The frown was automatic, but Greg simply inclined his head, wanting to move onto the third option. While the Sergeant understood Dickerson’s need to protect his reputation and authority, he did seem to be going more than a little overboard in Parker’s private opinion. The transfer _had_ been illegitimate and unwanted. Same for the gag order. Why should _his_ life be ruined just so Dickerson could maintain the illusion of control and get reelected?

On the opposite side of the desk, the politician huffed, stealing a glare at an impassive Dr. Toth. Then he cleared his throat. “Yes, well, Larry here has proposed a third way forward.” Disgruntlement flashed. “He seems to think that you should have the option to return to the SRU if that is your wish.” Unhappiness glowed and the mayor _squirmed_ , like a young boy forced into taking a nasty dose of medicine. “That said, Sergeant, your third option is a week’s return to your undercover assignment, to deal with any remaining loose ends, then a transfer back to the SRU. No mention of this entire affair will ever be made again.”

Romulus looked utterly outraged, but Greg had to close his eyes in sheer, overwhelming relief. Retirement was tempting, especially in his current physical state and his uncertainty about his place in the SRU, but at heart, he wasn’t quite ready to hang up his spurs. He’d never wanted to leave the SRU in the first place and he’d _hated_ the thought that Castor Troy would win from beyond the grave. He knew it wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but now… He thought fast, then nodded to himself. He could make this work. If his friends were willing.

* * * * *

Ed Lane was hard-pressed to remember a time when he’d been angrier than he was as he stared at the _spineless_ , _gormless_ politician more concerned with protecting _himself_ than doing right by a cop who’d been forced into one impossible situation after another, finally culminating in a one-man stand-off against a criminal who should’ve been safely locked up!

How Greg could sit there with such a calm, unconcerned expression was beyond Ed; if it had been _him_ in his friend’s place, he would’ve taken a chunk out of the selfish weasel’s hide. Even the politically experienced Holleran was visibly angered at Greg’s ‘options’. Only the last – which _Toth_ of all people had insisted on – offered any real hope.

His boss considered all the angles, then nodded to himself and leaned forward. Intensity sought to appear on his face, echoing far more in the ‘team sense’ as his superior gripped the magic, using his power to overcome his current disabilities. “Mr. Mayor,” he said, ducking his head respectfully, “I believe I’d like to go with the course of action Dr. Toth proposed.”

Dickerson’s disappointment was plain, but he rallied and nodded acceptance.

Ed opened his mouth and froze at Greg’s signal. “However,” his fellow Sergeant announced, the fury he truly felt leaking out. “I have two conditions.”

“You have no right to make demands,” Romulus snapped.

Greg never even glanced at him, though his shoulders tensed. “I _do_ have that right,” he countered. “Deny it all you want, Your Worship, but we _both_ know that my transfer and the gag order that accompanied it were abuses of power, as is you _dictating_ what my _options_ are.” Hazel narrowed. “If, as you say, my years of service have earned me a respectable retirement, than the _choice_ of whether or not I _want_ to retire should be mine. And _I_ should have the freedom to decide whether I _want_ to continue to serve in Intelligence Services or return to the Strategic Response Unit.” A beat. “Castor Troy thought I’d be easy _prey_ if I didn’t have my SRU teammates at my back.” Greg’s smile showed every last one of his teeth, as well as the predatory instincts of his Animagus form. “He was wrong. And _you_ are making the same mistake, sir.”

Dickerson paled, drawing back from Greg’s verbal slap.

“I want _written_ assurance that once this week is over and I’ve been transferred back to the SRU, I can _never_ be transferred without my _explicit_ permission again.”

“Reasonable,” Dr. Toth murmured, much to Ed’s surprise.

Greg swallowed, the predatory smile vanishing into uncertainty. “My other request is not of you, Your Worship.” Hazel rose to their commander. “Commander Holleran, if I’m going undercover again, I would appreciate backup this time. If you and Team One are willing.”

As if they’d let Greg go undercover _without_ them. But Ed gestured in an order of his own, keeping their teammates quiet. Parker had asked Holleran first for a reason and it wasn’t just respect in front of the ‘outsiders’. The commander met his gaze, somber and understanding Greg’s tack just as well as Ed. He was making it clear that trust had been strained and fractured by what had happened. Team One’s former Sergeant was deferring to his commander rather than the teammates he’d been forced to betray, thus implying that his teammates didn’t _trust_ him and needed their commander’s direct order to back him up.

And Ed had to wonder who Greg was trying to trick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here in the U.S. of A., a formal way to refer to a mayor is 'Your Honor', much as you would refer to a judge as 'Your Honor'. For one reason or another, I went to double-check this fact and discovered that in _Canada_ , the formal address is 'Your Worship'. I'm sure the history behind this formal address is fascinating, as are many such tiny tidbits, but I didn't look that up. At any rate, that's why Mayor Dickerson is occasionally referred to in this chapter as 'Your Worship'. I probably need to go update my Halloween stories on that front, but it will likely have to wait.


	4. Saving Scarface

“How you want to play this, Boss?” Ed asked as soon as they were back at the SRU and once again assembled inside the commander’s office. Although the plan was for them to go undercover immediately, he and his teammates needed to change into civilian clothes, plus they needed to let their families know they’d be out of touch for a week or so.

Commander Holleran sighed, pulling attention to himself. “Lane, one of you will need to go out and get new clothes for Parker; I’m not sure about what happened to his apartment after the fire, but none of it would fit anyway.”

From the chair in front of the commander’s desk, Greg felt his jaw twitch in a grimace at the reminder of how much weight he’d lost during his trek home. The reaction was brief, but it gave him hope that he was starting to get back his _human_ instincts and reactions. Back on home turf, he let the magic within him go, sensing he was starting to push it. He’d need it soon enough, but the longer he could let it rest, the better. “Winnie?” he offered.

“Team Two’s on a hot call,” Lou reported from behind him.

Ah. There went _that_ idea. Despite knowing it would do no good, he flicked a glance at his stubborn former team leader. “Not…boss…anymore…”

Holleran jerked in dismay. “Parker? Are you alright?”

Wordy jumped in. “Sir, Sarge’s okay. He was doing that earlier, too.”

Greg nodded, gripping his power again. “I can talk, sir, but I’m using my magic to sound normal.”

The commander relaxed. “Ah. Giving it a rest?”

Parker tipped his chin, grateful his boss had been able to fill in the blanks.

For a few seconds, Holleran stood still, then he shook his head. “Sergeant Parker, we’ll deal with the issue of your position within the SRU after this week, understand?”

“Yes.” Simple and blunt, but the best he could offer without draining his magical reserves further.

“For _now_ ,” Holleran continued, “I want you to consider yourself in command. While I’m _not_ demoting Sergeant Lane…” The commander eyed both Sergeants significantly. “…you have more experience with your persona and the nature of your undercover assignment.”

Greg tipped his head in acknowledgement, but flicked a look to Eddie, silently passing _immediate_ leadership to him.

His fellow Sergeant understood, offering a quick nod before turning to their teammates. “Okay, Wordy, Spike, go call your families. Jules, think you can handle getting the Boss a new outfit?”

“Three,” Greg cut in.

“Sure thing,” Jules agreed. As stereotypical as it was, the female officer would attract less attention than her male colleagues by clothes shopping in the middle of a weekday. She left, followed by Spike and Wordy; the sooner they got their tasks done, the sooner they could start the undercover assignment – and the sooner it would be done.

“Sam, Lou,” Ed continued, swinging to them. “I need one of you to go talk to Neal; we’re gonna need to take those two potions undercover with us, so make sure you get a week’s worth of both.”

“Copy,” Sam acknowledged.

Before he could move, Ed held up a hand. “And Sam? See if you can get some pain potions, too. We’re already pushing things and we might have to push ‘em even more before this is over.”

The blond sniper nodded and left.

Once he was gone, Ed turned to their last teammate. “Lou, stay with the Boss. Let’s keep him out of sight for now, so use those maintenance tunnels to get back to the room we’ve been using.”

“Copy that,” Lou replied.

“Eddie…”

The Sergeant turned to his friend. “I know, Greg. Telling them _now_ , right when you have to go undercover… That’s not fair to anyone.” A pause. “And I’m guessing you’ve got a couple other reasons, too, but I don’t need to know right now. Later, okay?”

Gratitude shone in hazel eyes. _‘Thanks, Eddie.’_

Ed smiled. _‘Any time, Greg.’_ Out loud, he said, “Commander, I’m going to go call my wife. Do you want to…”

“No need, Sergeant,” Holleran interceded. “Go to it; I’ll see _all_ of you in a week.”

* * * * *

Lou supported his boss as they moved through the tunnels, nerves fluttering at the thought of _going undercover_. He was probably over-thinking it, but the fact remained that he’d never gone undercover before. Well, perhaps once or twice on a hot call, but only briefly to fool their targets. Nothing long term.

_‘It’s not as hard as it sounds,’_ the Boss remarked.

The tan-skinned constable stole a glance at the stocky, gaunt form, but didn’t respond.

There was a mental sigh. _‘Lou, the hardest part for me was remembering to react like_ Carl Elias _, not Greg Parker, especially in situations where I_ wanted _to react like a cop. If I do this thing right, you guys won’t have to worry about that.’_

Lou bit his lip. _‘Boss, what’s going on?’_ he asked. _‘You shouldn’t have to go undercover again at all, so why’d you agree to it?’_

In the background, he sensed their teammates perking up, just as interested in the answer as he was. Sarge sensed it, too; Lou could feel the muscles under his arm tensing. By mutual, unspoken, consent, they dropped the conversation as the constable eased them out of the maintenance area, pushed the door closed behind them, and covered the last stretch to the small room lurking in the no-man’s land between the tech and magic sides of the barn.

As Lou supported his boss down onto the bed, Sarge shook his head, the impression somehow carrying to their teammates. _‘Lou, I’ve got a_ suspicion _, but I’m not completely sure yet.’_

_‘Greg?’_ Ed queried, request clear.

For a moment, tension hung, then the Boss sighed again. _‘Back in the day, Castor Troy was a terror, no mistake about it. But he didn’t run his organization all by_ himself _.’_

Lou froze and Spike blurted, _‘You think someone’s taken over?’_

_‘Spike, it doesn’t make sense any other way. Once Castor Troy was in prison, he couldn’t have kept his organization together without help. Almost as soon as he broke out, he was back up and running as if he’d never been arrested. Someone took over back then and I’d bet a year’s salary that the same person’s taken over_ now _.’_ Sarge paused, letting them absorb the implications, then continued, _‘Commander Holleran told me that the Carl Elias identity was set up months ago; they wanted_ me _all along, but it wasn’t until Castor Troy escaped that they were able to bypass Holleran’s refusal and force the transfer.’_

_‘You think the assignment was shady from the start?’_ Wordy asked.

_‘Yes, I do, Wordy,’_ Sarge confirmed. _‘I think Brenda was slated to be my handler all along, but I don’t think she had enough authority to force my transfer or put in a gag order. Someone else had to do that.’_

_‘Romulus,’_ Ed hissed.

Lou caught a jerky nod from his superior. _‘Right on the money, Eddie. And that’s the other reason I’m suspicious. Back in the day, rumor had it that Castor had a twin.’_

_‘A twin?’_ Jules echoed. _‘Was that Brenda?’_

Sarge hesitated, giving Jules’ remark some thought. _‘That’s a good idea, Jules, but Detective Archer spent years chasing Castor Troy. He_ knew _the man, inside and out; I didn’t meet Archer until after I arrested Troy, but once I did, he put me in protective custody and briefed me on the entire file. He never mentioned a sister, so I don’t think he knew about Brenda, but he_ did _tell me about a brother. Archer called him Pollux Troy. As far as I know, Pollux Troy was never caught; he was behind the scenes, so he managed to evade arrest.’_ A beat. _‘In Roman mythology, Romulus is the name of one of the twins who founded Rome.’_

The tan-skinned constable’s brows arched at the trivia, but he didn’t doubt that Sarge was right. Sarge was Italian – Roman history was _his_ history – and the magical world’s history often intersected with mythology. _‘So you think maybe this guy’s actually Pollux Troy?’_ he offered.

_‘Yes, Lou, I do. He’s dealing with long-term grief and he hates me. Not dislikes,_ hates _. There’s no reason for that…unless it’s because I killed his brother and his sister.’_

_‘That’s why you didn’t want ‘em to know you’re hurting,’_ Sam realized. _‘They think you’re weak, they’ll come right for your throat.’_

A weary nod. _‘I just hope they didn’t pick up on Dickerson’s reference to my family. If I’m_ right _, then what better way to get back at me?’_

Lou shivered and Wordy immediately asked, _‘Sarge, you want me to tell Shelley to go outta town?’_

_‘Wordy, do it,’_ Ed ordered before Sarge could reply. _‘I’m going to tell Sophie the same thing. It’ll look like_ we’re _trying to protect our families, not necessarily you just trying to cover Greg’s kids.’_ Switching angles, he asked, _‘Greg, what do we need to know right_ now _? We can theorize all we want later, so prioritize.’_

_‘Copy that, Ed,’_ Sarge agreed. _‘Jules, I need at least three button down shirts. Two in paler colors, maybe a bit washed out. The last… Make it look sharp. Keep the receipts and we’ll give IS a parting gift on my way out.’_

_‘Copy,’_ Jules acknowledged even as her teammates chortled in the background. _‘So…two pairs of jeans and one set of dress pants to match? You’re stuck in sneakers, but loafers are pretty much the same; we can make it work.’_

_‘That works,’_ the Boss concurred. Embarrassed, he shifted. _‘I’m, ah, not sure what my sizes are any more…’_

_‘Not a problem, Boss,’_ Jules countered breezily. _‘I’m getting stuff I know is too big; Neal can get it down to your size and you can figure out your sizes later.’_ A deliberate pause. _‘I do_ not _get paid enough to know your clothes size, Boss.’_

The team snickered and Lou watched in some fascination as Sarge’s ears turned bright red, but his face didn’t. He was still struggling with normal human expression, but the constable was pretty sure his boss wasn’t giving himself enough credit. He wasn’t doing half-bad for a guy who’d been stuck in his Animagus form for two months, physically unable to express his emotions.

_‘Right…moving on,’_ Wordy suggested. _‘Sarge, how are we gonna swing this? I mean, from their point of view, Elias shows up alive after two months_ and _he’s got six tagalongs trailing behind._ I’d _be suspicious.’_

Sarge’s jaw twitched in a faint smile. _‘We’ll have to be careful, Wordy, but it shouldn’t be as much of a problem as you’re thinking. While I was under, I did make some references to my first crew.’_ The stocky man shrugged. _‘I implied that I’d parted ways with my first crew for reasons I didn’t want to get into.’_

_‘So…your first crew is gonna be who pulled you outta the fire?’_ Spike asked. _‘And ‘cause we didn’t know who to trust, we kept you under a rock or something?’_

Lou frowned; it sounded rather flimsy to him. Easily seen through, particularly with how devastating the fire had been.

_‘That’s a good start, Spike, but I see you frowning, Lou. It_ is _flimsy, something Romulus probably knows just as well as we do. Trying to go undercover again, two months after a massive fire I was_ known _to be in, would strain any one’s credibility to the max.’_

Sarge didn’t sound worried, though, which meant… _‘You got something,’_ Lou realized.

_‘I do,’_ the Boss admitted. _‘Romulus doesn’t know that one of Elias’s men figured me out.’_

The ‘team sense’ froze. _‘Your cover’s already busted?’_ Wordy yelped, dismay clear.

_‘Wordy, I didn’t know he knew until right before the fire,’_ Sarge replied. _‘He_ knew _I was a cop, but he decided he didn’t care.’_ A wry, remembering grin. _‘You guys should’ve heard him trying to talk me out of the whole last stand thing. He’ll help us get back in.’_

Lou wasn’t quite as sure, but he trusted the Sarge. _‘What about names?’_ he inquired.

_‘Ah. That, I’m afraid, I already did for some of you,’_ the Boss confessed. _‘So, just to keep everyone straight, use your Halloween first names, team.’_ Another smile twitched. _‘Just don’t call me Max or Phil by accident.’_

Understanding swept the team and Lou twitched a grin of his own. The grin grew wider as Spike, sensing the briefing was over, promptly asked, _‘So…Sarge… Is Amber as cute as she sounds?’_

Sarge went beet red and Lou couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

* * * * *

Greg was still bright red over an hour later as he scrambled up into one of the unmarked SUVs that Intelligence Services had grudgingly lent the SRU for the weeklong operation. The rest of his team had taken Spike’s teasing as license to start razzing him themselves; while he was grateful for the hint of normalcy and the indication that his relationships weren’t nearly as strained as he’d feared, he would’ve _thought_ that they’d catch a hint from his pointed announcement that he was at least twenty _years_ older than Amber. Not to mention the fact that he already _had_ a girlfriend, thank you.

Once Jules had come back with the clothing she’d picked out, Neal had done the honors and shrank the clothes down to fit Greg’s gaunt, shrunken frame, his frustration with the situation clear. Parker understood – given his druthers, he would _not_ be going undercover again – but he needed to finish this. He couldn’t finish things by himself, but with his team’s help… He wished he’d had them at his back from the beginning, but _now_ …now he had them. Pollux Troy wasn’t going to know what hit him.

“Boss, where’re we going?” Ed asked, turning in the driver’s seat to look back at his fellow Sergeant.

Greg had to think a moment, then he nodded to himself and gave Eddie an address. As the war with Castor Troy had begun to heat up, he and Anthony had set up several locations away from ‘Carl Elias’s’ normal haunts. Each location had been meant for a different purpose and _this_ location had been for meeting with several of his street chiefs. _If_ Anthony had maintained the same pattern, then Greg was fairly sure they could link up with him and be undercover within hours.

In the background, Ed relayed his directions through the ‘team sense’, quietly using the magic as a secret replacement for the comms they’d had to leave behind. Greg stayed out of it and closed his eyes, gathering up what strength and reserves he’d been able to rebuild in three days. Precious little, but it would have to do. He was still exhausted beyond measure, well beyond his limits, but he didn’t have to fight by himself any more.

* * * * *

The ground jarred as he walked, drawing sharp protest from his feet, but Greg had gotten used to tuning out pain. Probably not a good thing, but the Sergeant didn’t have the focus to spare for worrying about it. Ahead of them, he could hear voices; reflexively, he gestured for Team One to hold in position and crept just a few steps closer, listening intently.

“You think you can just _ignore_ the Boss’s rules?” Anthony. But he’d left the organization _to_ Anthony…had Anthony allowed someone else to usurp that?

Someone else sneered. “Elias ain’t been seen in _months_ , Scarface! We ain’t taking no orders from a _dead_ man and his lapdog.”

Greg stiffened. Anthony was still deferring to _Elias_? That made no sense – _Anthony_ had been _at_ the factory before the fire and he’d _known_ what Greg himself had planned. Why maintain the authority of a dead man? Shifting, the Sergeant tuned out the argument, studying the players and their body language. He recognized the men Anthony was yelling at – his most volatile street chiefs. He’d actually had to _thrash_ three of them at one point to establish his authority and although Parker knew he was incapable of _repeating_ the feat, well…

A smirk surfaced and Greg took a moment to summon up his Elias persona, letting it settle into his bones and swirl around his own identity. The officer straightened, fully disregarding the pain from his feet, and turned to his team. Sharp gestures laid out the plan and it was _Elias_ , not Parker, who shifted back towards his second.

In less than a minute, his crew was in position and waiting for his next orders. It was none too soon, either, for the chiefs were moving forward to attack Anthony. Elias strode through the trees, reaching Anthony’s side just as his crew emerged as well, weapons up and pointed at the rogue chiefs.

“Anthony,” Elias greeted calmly, though his eyes narrowed at the chiefs. “I see you’ve been keeping busy in my absence.”

Anthony managed not to jump, instead producing a cocky smirk that pulled at the scar on his cheek. “Sure have, Boss,” he agreed. “Got a few chiefs who didn’t think you were coming back, though.”

“I see that,” Elias murmured, his tone unimpressed. “Perhaps they’ve forgotten what I _do_ to those who _challenge_ my authority.” The foremost chief paled, one hand darting up to his collarbone involuntarily. Elias gave him a toothy grin, hazel glinting with vicious glee. “Tell me, Anthony, other than the _obvious_ defiance I just had the displeasure to observe, what _have_ our friends here been up to?”

His second shifted uneasily. “They’ve, ah, they’ve been bothering some of the ladies.”

The grin vanished into solemn regard. “I see.” Clipped warning rang. “The same ladies as before?”

The flinch alone answered, but Elias waited, letting the silence stretch and watching all of the rogue chiefs go paler. “Yes, Boss,” Anthony finally confirmed. “Slaps and bruises, no broken bones, though.”

Anger glowed in hazel depths and every last one of the chiefs backed up. “Steve,” Elias growled.

“You got it, Boss,” Wordy replied, holstering his gun. Around him, the rest of the crew shifted, keeping their weapons up, but adjusting their lines of fire enough that Wordy wouldn’t accidentally step into them. _‘Sarge?’_

_‘One punch each,’_ Elias ordered. _‘Make it look good.’_

Keeping his expression set and inflexible, the big man stepped forward, grabbing the first chief. One fist curled under and up, slamming into the street thug’s gut with most of the constable’s strength. The thug collapsed, clutching his stomach and moaning softly in pain. Wordy glanced up, meeting the other street chiefs’ eyes. Then he smirked.

* * * * *

“Nice timing, Boss,” Scarface remarked as soon as the beaten, cowed street chiefs were gone.

“Not a problem, Anthony,” Greg replied. “Maybe we could take this back to the trucks, though?”

“Sure thing, Boss,” the mobster agreed, though his expression turned confused and slightly bewildered.

Ed shifted closer, unable to help but notice that Greg was limping as they headed back towards the IS SUVs. His friend had been able to pull his undercover identity out at a moment’s notice, even adopting ‘Elias’s’ demeanor and facial expressions without so much as a hint of the difficulty he was having with displaying emotion. Even as they made their way through the small forest preserve, Greg was falling into step with Scarface and speaking to him quietly.

It was really enough to make a guy jealous; Greg was _comfortable_ with Scarface, comfortable in a way that Ed remembered from before Fletcher Stadium, but not _after_. Emotion brushed against him, Greg’s hazel turning to meet his blue past Scarface’s shoulder. Though the other man didn’t speak, the affection was real and genuine, reminding Ed that Greg _hadn’t_ come back for _Scarface_ , he’d come back for Team One and his family.

When they reached the parking lot, Jules swept to the lead vehicle and pulled open the back door. Greg followed, at a pace that _looked_ unhurried, but cut across the distance in a quick and efficient way. Hauling himself up into the seat, he turned towards Jules. “Thank you, Natasha.”

Jules offered an enigmatic smile and nod before flowing back and out of the way, her movements so much like the Black Widow that Ed found himself blinking.

Business-like, Greg’s eyes snapped back to Scarface. “Anthony, why are you still deferring to me? I _gave_ you the organization two months ago.”

The mobster fidgeted, looking everywhere but at the confused police Sergeant. “Well, you know…I figured maybe you’d be back, Boss.”

Greg groaned, briefly dropping his head in his hands. “ _Anthony_ … What part of ‘I’m a cop, I’m SRU’ did you miss?” Hazel came back up, pinning the mobster. “Anthony, the _only_ reason my teammates and I are here is because I’ve been forced to go undercover again for a week.”

Scarface froze, eyes widening in shock. “Say what?”

“I’m sorry, hold on a second,” Sam interjected, rubbing at his eyes. “You _know_ the Boss is a cop, but you _don’t care_?”

Ed’s brows hiked at the embarrassed expression on the mobster’s face. Sheepish, Scarface rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Never had a boss I could be proud of,” he mumbled.

Greg smiled sadly, as if he’d heard that phrase before. “Thor,” he interceded. “Anthony’s reasons are his own.”

Ed cleared his throat before Sam could say ‘Copy’; the sniper ducked his head, abashed. “Yes, Boss.”

Switching back to Scarface, Greg said, “Anthony, after this week, the organization’s yours. Unless you feel you _need_ Elias’s name as a figurehead, you might as well officially assume the reins.”

The mobster nodded, but Ed saw his rather sullen expression; for whatever reason, Scarface _liked_ having Elias – _Greg_ – as his boss. Understandable, Ed himself wanted Greg back as his boss, but that was _different_. Wasn’t it?

“For this week, Anthony, I’m going to be joined by my first crew,” Greg explained. Flicking two fingers at Spike, he added, “Tony here has suggested that our story could be that they rescued me from the fire and it took two months for me to recover enough to come back.”

Scarface frowned, eyeing the cops around him as he considered the plan. “Boss, I’m the only one you ever told about your first crew. The chiefs ain’t gonna like outsiders comin’ in like this.”

Greg smirked, a vicious, pitiless smile that looked _nothing_ like the Greg that Ed knew. “I’m Carl Elias, Anthony. I don’t care if a few of my chiefs get their noses out of joint over my first crew. They’re coming in, they’re staying, and they have the same rank as you do, Anthony.”

Rather than get upset at the ultimatum, Scarface smirked right back, every bit as pitiless and vicious. “You got it, Boss.”


	5. You Stole My Friend!

Greg opted to stay with Ed and Wordy instead of riding with Anthony. Elias’s second was disappointed, but the Sergeant hadn’t missed his teammates’ response to his easy, seemingly effortless interaction with Anthony. They had no idea how much Greg had had to be on guard during his undercover assignment. _Trust_ was impossible when you were lying to every single person who crossed your path. If not for Holleran, Parker knew he would’ve cracked and started drinking again for real.

He _had_ made friends with Anthony, but he had never forgotten that Anthony was friends with _Carl Elias_ , not Greg Parker. After two months living with suspicion and mistrust, he’d been _shocked_ to see _his_ team, _his_ guys on the ground floor of Elias’s headquarters. Saving Eddie had been pure reflex; in that split second, he’d begun to reclaim his identity from Castor Troy’s clutches. Not that he’d realized that until much later.

Carl Elias was brutal and ruthless, just as vicious as the gryphon and as cruelly inventive as Maxwell Lord. Greg had done that deliberately, well aware that if his undercover persona was _anything_ like himself, he’d slip. He’d not realized the toll such a persona would extract from heart and soul, even after he’d switched to rhetoric and bluffing rather than physical displays of prowess. Now… Parker grimaced, exhaustion and pain throbbing after a simple trek through the woods and an even simpler confrontation with a few troublemakers. He’d known he wasn’t up to handling the physical demands of going undercover, but now that truth had been driven home with a vengeance. And he still had to make his grand entrance and force Elias’s chiefs into accepting his team as their superiors.

_Oh…joy…_

* * * * *

Ed traded a glance with Wordy, almost grateful that their boss had not only opted to stick close to them, but it sounded like he’d fallen asleep in the SUV’s back seat. Normally, none of them would’ve been happy with Parker sleeping on the job, but his friend _needed_ the rest. He was exhausted and sick, yet none of them had a choice, especially if Greg was right about Pollux Troy.

“What do you think, Steve?” Ed asked, careful to use their undercover names now that they’d made contact.

Wordy lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Those guys backed off real quick when they saw the Boss.”

Ed nodded agreement. The mobsters had been _afraid_ of Greg, not an emotion the Sergeant usually associated with his negotiator boss. Greg hadn’t been surprised, though; instead there had been an alien, vicious glee in his eyes and insinuation had fairly _dripped_ from each word he spoke. Ever since finding out Carl Elias’s true identity, Ed had considered him nothing more than a mask; Greg’s negotiation skills at their finest. He’d been wrong; Carl Elias was a dangerous, ruthless mob boss who hid his vicious nature behind a veneer of civility. Greg had truly outdone himself when he’d crafted his undercover identity.

Maybe that was why he felt so conflicted and unsettled. For two months, while Greg had been lying to them, he’d been creating an identity they didn’t know and _couldn’t_ trust. And although Ed _knew_ his friend had been forced into it, he’d thrived in his new role. Gotten used to directing large-scale operations, each with a particular purpose and an achievable goal. He’d gained the trust of Toronto’s underground, allying himself with the worst of the city’s criminals as he waged a successful war against an even more terrible criminal.

In light of all his brother had achieved, where did _he_ fit in? Where did _Team One_ fit in? When they hadn’t been looking, Greg had outgrown them. Oh, he needed them right _now_ , but once he recovered…he wouldn’t _need_ them anymore. Uneasy, the Sergeant couldn’t help but remember Holleran’s insistence that Greg _wasn’t_ Team One anymore. Greg’s own insistence that he wasn’t the Boss anymore.

A shiver traveled up Ed’s spine. Greg…he didn’t _need_ them, but _they_ needed _him_. So what were they supposed to do now? He didn’t know; he only knew that in spite of three glorious days of having _Greg_ back, he _still_ didn’t have _his friend_ back. He hadn’t had his friend since Fletcher Stadium, not _really_. It left his soul with the same plea he’d had for the past four months.

_I want my brother back._

* * * * *

It was a rather sad state of affairs when Parker had an easier time pretending to be Carl Elias than he did being _himself_. Nevertheless, Greg donned his well-practiced mask, letting Elias out once more.

“Anthony, with me,” he ordered. A discreet series of hand signals drew his crew into a loose semi-circle around the mob boss and his second. With a broad smile that did nothing to hide Elias’s inner ruthlessness, the undercover officer accepted the glasses Anthony offered and slid them on, completing the transformation. Without so much a flinch, the crime lord adjusted his dark brown sports jacket, one hand nudging the collar of the shimmering navy blue shirt below; he stood tall in his comfortable black loafers and knit dress pants that matched his jacket.

Finished with his last minute prep, Elias jerked his head and Anthony smirked, leading the way towards the organization’s headquarters. Once inside, his second headed for the building’s meeting room. The room was nondescript, but large enough for most of the crime lord’s chiefs to meet with him at one time. Not that he usually met with _all_ of them at once – need-to-know was as important to Toronto’s underground as it was to Toronto’s law-abiding citizens. Perhaps _more_ so and certainly more strenuously enforced. _This_ time, however… He flicked a glance at Anthony.

“They’re coming, Boss.”

“Excellent,” Elias murmured. “Scott, arrange your crew as you see fit.”

“Yes, Boss,” Ed acknowledged.

Elias turned back to Anthony, keenly aware of _his_ crew shifting to the most advantageous positions near him, but focused on his second. “Tell me, Anthony, how have the past two months been?”

“The first couple days after the fire were really bad, Boss,” Anthony reported. “The upstart’s people went nuts and so did the cops.”

_What?_ “Scott, Steve, to me,” Elias snapped. Both men closed at once and the mob boss’s hazel pinned them. “Explain.”

Ed frowned, trading a quick look with Wordy before shaking his head. “Nothing that we ever heard about, Boss. But we were keeping our heads down.”

“Your contacts in Guns ‘n’ Gangs never said anything?” Elias pressed.

“Wasn’t Guns ‘n’ Gangs,” Lou interjected from the side. As the four men turned to him, he shrugged. “Homicide was goin’ nuts; they thought some chick got an SRU cop killed.”

Internally, Greg applauded his constable – the less-lethal specialist had managed to get that entire sentence out without flinching or otherwise betraying his own personal involvement. Outwardly, Elias’s brows rose. “ _Cragen_?”

“Don’t know, never heard the details,” Lou replied. His gaze lowered respectfully and he didn’t tap against the ‘team sense’, both signs that he’d offered everything he knew.

Spike cleared his throat. “The scuttlebutt I heard was about some guy named Fusco,” he offered with a tiny shrug. “No one knew who died in that fire, so they all went crazy.”

That, Elias could well believe. He nodded, dismissing Ed and Wordy with a negligent flick of his fingers. As they obediently shuffled back to their prior positions, the chiefs began to stream in, most of them surprised to see their missing boss at the head of the table. There were a few calculating glances thrown at his crew, but no one spoke up.

Elias waited for all of them to arrive before stepping to the head of the table someone had moved into the room at some point. He smiled at his people, spreading his hands. “I’m sure rumors have run rampant, so allow me to dispense with the most nefarious of them all.” The smile widened, allowing a hint of savage glee through. “Despite Castor Troy’s best efforts, _I_ still live and _he_ does not!”

Ignoring the distinct lack of enthusiasm, the crime lord moved on. “Anthony informs me that there was quite a bit more chaos than I had anticipated. Given that, I need up-to-date reports from each of you.”

Just as he’d hoped, the demand for reports diverted his men from eyeballing the newcomers ranged around him. And unless he missed his guess, his crew would get their entrance before too long. Anthony spread out the map of the city and each chief reported on their section or enterprise. Elias listened carefully, nodding thoughtfully at the consistent admission that things had been hectic following his disappearance, but had steadily quieted down again in the following weeks.

In the back of his mind, Elias tapped the ‘team sense’. _‘Spike, my seven o’clock; Lou, five o’clock.’_

_‘Copy,’_ both chorused, scanning for trouble.

_‘Boss, I got movement at your four o’clock, too,’_ Jules murmured.

_‘Copy that,’_ Elias acknowledged. _‘The rest of you, hold position.’_

It happened fast; three chiefs pulled their weapons, only to be taken down in one simultaneous counterattack. Anthony jumped, but Elias never twitched as his crew _moved_ , deliberately using street fighting tactics instead of standard SRU takedowns. Having subdued their targets, the three undercover officers dragged the rogue chiefs to an unimpressed Elias.

“Sloppy,” he proclaimed, disdain and disgust dripping. “Did you think I would _miss_ your maneuvering? Overlook your _second_ attempt _today_ to undermine my authority?”

Angry murmurs rose from the other chiefs. The rogues glared back defiantly, well aware they had gambled against the crime lord and lost. One of them spat at Elias’s feet. “I ain’t followin’ no _cop_!”

Elias snarled, lashing out in a punch that sent the loudmouth crashing to the ground. Raw fury boiled. “Does anyone _else_ wish to accuse me of being a _cop_?” The room recoiled at the unmistakable _venom_ in Elias’s voice. The other two rogues shrank back, doing their best to disappear. Tension vibrated, awaiting only one wrong move to snap.

At last, the mob boss stepped back, gaze cold. “Anthony.”

“Yes, Boss?”

“They defied _me_ , but they attempted to kill _you_ ,” Elias pronounced. “Deal with them as you see fit.”

The room rocked once more; so well had Elias’s prior tactics worked that he had never been pushed so far as to _execute_ a member of his own organization. And yet, the assembled mobsters accepted their leader’s decision, all save the three so condemned. They fought, screaming insults as they were dragged from the room to await Anthony’s pleasure. Not a single chief moved to help them, not even those who had joined them in their earlier rebellion.

Once the rogues were removed, Elias gestured to the three who had caught them as well as three more individuals lurking at his back. “Gentlemen,” the crime lord announced, “Meet my first crew – and _your_ new superiors.”

* * * * *

By the time evening arrived, Sam was in quiet awe of his boss’s near-flawless performance. If the blond sniper hadn’t _known_ the truth, he would’ve believed his boss hated cops with a vengeance. The Boss hadn’t even hesitated when dealing with the three men who’d tried to attack him. Though Sam had picked up on the horror from his teammates at the summary judgment, the former soldier knew better. If Sarge _hadn’t_ reacted to the attempt on his life with immediate and lethal force, _all_ of them would’ve been in danger. And if any of his teammates thought that decision had been _easy_ for Sarge…well, they’d better not, because Sam knew better and he was the _rookie_.

Sarge’s face was almost gray as he dismissed Scarface for the night, after asking the mobster to arrange six bedrooms for ‘his crew’, only to find out Scarface had already done it. The team dispersed, ostensibly to their rooms, but really to keep any of Elias’s men from realizing what was _really_ going on in the penthouse and the level below it.

Sam returned first, bringing the two potions for the Boss’s hands and feet, along with one of the pain potions Neal had given him. The sniper hoped it was strong enough to take the edge off, but not enough to turn Sarge’s mind to mush. They _needed_ to talk and clear the air. Inside the suite of rooms, Sam took one look at his boss and shook his head. Sarge had gotten the sports jacket and loafers off, but his hands were too damaged for more. A quiet tap at the door heralded Lou’s arrival with a loose-fitting set of sweats. The two constables patiently overrode their superior’s broken English protests to get him out of his Elias getup, through a brief shower, and into the sweats.

Spike arrived as Sam and Lou eased the Boss down on a plush, comfortable couch, quietly joking with each other about Sarge’s stubborn nature. The bomb tech brought in a nutrient potion and a hearty soup. It was simple, mostly broth, but possessed a surprising amount of soft meat. None of the three constables allowed the injured man to hold the soup spoon, ignoring his embarrassment and chagrin. Sam waited until after the meal to start slathering on the potions, though he made the Boss drink the pain potion along with the nutrient potion. By the time he was done, the rest of the team had arrived.

_‘Greg?’_ Ed asked, sticking to the one form of communication they had that was immune to detection or eavesdropping. _‘You up for this?’_

There was a heavy pause, then the Boss sighed and Sam felt exhaustion flutter around him, coupled with a foreign, but achingly familiar determination. _‘No, Eddie, but I can’t put this off forever.’_

As he spoke, Sam felt anxiety shiver up his spine, along with an acute sense of _fear_. Fear of being hated, shunned, and abandoned. Cast out… _alone_. Following after the fear was a strange sense that those _responses_ would be justified. Somehow _right_.

_‘Greg, you’re broadcasting,’_ Ed remarked.

Hazel closed. _‘I know, Eddie.’_

Sam swallowed hard; it was one thing to see Sarge’s physical state, but for him to be so depleted that he couldn’t even maintain his emotional shielding… Without thinking, he rested his hand on the older man’s shoulder. _‘Take your time, Boss. We won’t leave you, no matter what. Promise.’_

_‘Don’t promise what you can’t keep, Sam,’_ Sarge chided, though he sounded touched by the loyalty. _‘Ed? Wordy? You two haven’t been happy since we left the forest and I suspect everyone here agrees with you. Go ahead, spit it out.’_

Sam shifted on his heels, casting his Sergeant and team leader a pleading expression. Couldn’t they see – couldn’t they _feel_ – the same things he could? But though both glanced at him, neither relented in their hard, unhappy stance.

They traded looks, then Ed stalked forward, looking as though he dearly wanted to poke their boss in the chest, but didn’t dare. _‘Greg, I_ get _it, I get why you’ve been pulling back ever since that mess with Collins, but for crying out loud, you treat_ Scarface _better than you treat me!’_

The blond felt a pulse of denial and shock, mute horror on Sarge’s face as he swung to Wordy, seeking confirmation. But it was Spike who spoke. _‘He’s right, Boss.’_

From the side, Lou added, _‘You and him today, Boss, you_ know _each other. He knew what Elias wanted before you even said anything.’_

Realization tore the breath from Sam’s lungs. _‘You used to be like that with us,’_ he whispered. The unspoken questions rang around them: _Why? What had changed? What had they done_ wrong _?_

Ed’s fists clenched as foreign guilt and remorse swirled around them. Shoulders bunched, then the Sergeant snarled wordless frustration and pointed at the Boss. _‘You were there_ every _day, Greg, but my_ friend _was gone. You said all the right things, helped me out just like you always do, but my_ friend _was nowhere in sight! You cut me off and locked yourself in a box. Never laughed, only smiled if you had to, and you wouldn’t let me help you!’_ For one precious instant, Ed stopped, then he roared, “You stole my friend!”

Wordy didn’t speak and neither did the rest of them. Ed had summed it up perfectly. Bit by bit, little by little, their boss had retreated, pulling in on himself until he could stand right beside them and still be worlds apart. He still fought for them, never once letting them down – no matter _what_ that cost him personally – but he never let them in. Instead they watched as he battled demons they couldn’t understand because he wouldn’t _tell_ them. Praying that he _would_ let them in before he fell.

When he _had_ fallen, they’d grieved, not knowing that fall was nothing but a lie. A lie crafted by Holleran and IS to cover their former boss’s undercover assignment. Sarge had played his part with chilling perfection, deceiving them so completely that they’d never suspected the truth. It left Sam feeling like he no longer _knew_ the man who was far more of a father to him than the General had _ever_ been.

And that was the worst, most soul-wrenching fact of all.

* * * * *

Greg knew his friends were getting the full blast of his own emotions. But, just as he’d said, he no longer possessed enough strength to maintain that barrier. Maybe that was for the best. Some of what he had to say, it was unbelievable. If they could _feel_ his emotions, they would know he wasn’t lying. Or, at the very least, that he _believed_ what he was telling them.

Someone started to speak and Greg held up a hand, grateful when his request for silence was honored. He’d put everything off too long, he realized. Even though he _couldn’t_ have told them anything once he was undercover, that didn’t matter. He’d kept secrets, _again_ , and those secrets had nearly destroyed them, _again_. But where to start? How to begin? A snippet he’d heard somewhere flew through his mind.

_Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop._

Drawing in a deep breath, Greg gazed up, doing his best to meet his friends’ gazes. _‘It’s…a long story and um, some of it I didn’t find out until later and some of it you guys know already.’_ He cut himself off, misery evident that he’d already made a hash of things.

“Boss.” He’d looked down; still ashamed, Parker lifted his eyes to meet Wordy’s gray. “We’re not going anywhere, so go ahead. Tell us. Tell us everything.”

Panic squeezed his chest, fear gibbering in his mind. Tell them _everything_? But…if he _didn’t_ , he was going to _lose_ them. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Greg forced himself to breathe, pulling in oxygen. Forced himself to _think_ , to order his explanation and shed the secrecy that had come to define almost every part of his life. Because he _wasn’t_ going to lose them by keeping the secrets that had brought them to this point.

_‘The…the beginning…’_ He glanced up at Sam, then mentally grit his teeth and powered forward. _‘Initially,’_ Parker admitted, _‘I was getting your emotions, but_ you _weren’t being affected. Not directly.’_

Confusion echoed, along with a sense of shock that the situation had been going on for so _long_. _‘Boss…’_ Sam whispered. _‘You…you’re talking about the_ first _‘team sense’.’_

_‘Yes, Sam, I am,’_ Greg confirmed sadly. _‘My magical core was ripped apart; I_ needed _your support, but at_ that _point…’_ He swallowed hard. _‘I was…invading your privacy, but I_ wasn’t _directly affecting you.’_

_‘Your magic wasn’t influencing us,’_ Ed put in…that was right, Eddie knew more about what was going on than the rest of the team.

_‘Sarge?’_ Wordy asked, alarmed. _‘What’s Ed talking about?’_

Emotion wrenched his chest, fear stealing his breath. But…he couldn’t…he couldn’t stop _now_. He had to keep going, they _deserved_ to know. Deserved to have the chance to rant and rail at him, hate him with every fiber of their beings. A single tear slipped down. _‘Wordy… Guys… After the Netherworld…when you…when you wanted me to_ live _…’_

_‘Boss?’_ Jules questioned, drawing close to rest a hand on his shoulder.

_‘What did we_ do _?’_ Spike asked, dread ringing.

Dear _Aslan_ , did he _really_ have to say it…? _‘You… You accepted the anchors,’_ Greg managed, stumbling and struggling. Involuntarily, his eyes closed. _‘And when you did that…’_

_Say it, Parker!_

_‘My magic…it…it…’_

_For crying out loud,_ say it _!_

_‘My magic…’_ More tears followed the first, his throat closing, choking off that awful word. A ruthless impulse surged, his undercover identity coming to the fore and, ironically, to his rescue. _‘My magic enslaved you.’_

Shock and horror reverberated around him, but Greg sank down on the couch, feeling the weight on his shoulders lift away. The strain and stress of keeping _that_ secret from his friends…the _poison_ twisting every thought, every action since he’d found out. Even after he’d poured out all his bile and rage and frustration on Eddie, still the weight of his secret had remained, ensuring he could never truly purge all the poison and start to _heal_.

So great was his relief at simply _telling_ his secret that at first he didn’t register the arguments sailing through his mind as his teammates went to war over the revelation, trading accusations and spitting vitriol at each other as they fought. Neither did Greg realize that both Sam and Jules were suddenly on the opposite side of the room from him, but Eddie had replaced the pair and was staying out of the verbal war raging around them.

_‘Okay,_ enough _!’_ Ed snarled, bringing the whole room to a halt. Greg shifted uneasily as all attention swung back in his and Eddie’s direction.

_‘Ed, you_ knew _?’_ Wordy demanded.

Ed returned his best friend’s outrage and indignation with steady calm. _‘I found out right before Greg went undercover,’_ he replied.

_‘Why didn’t you_ tell _us?’_ Jules snapped, fear shining beneath her anger.

_‘Because I gave my word, Jules,’_ the Sergeant explained. _‘Look, I’m not any happier about this than the rest of you, but it’s not as bad as Greg thinks.’_

_What?_ _‘Eddie?’_ Parker questioned, puzzlement shining and his head cocking to the side in instinctive query.

Ed huffed, then straightened to face their friends head on. _‘Okay, let’s break this down, guys. Greg’s right; the_ first _‘team sense’ was just his magic holding onto us for dear life ‘cause his core got ripped apart.’_

Greg cringed, but Eddie was right. His magic hadn’t been capable of influencing them at that point, not with the core in critical condition. Soft, he whispered, _‘If…if you guys hadn’t been there…’_

_‘You wouldn’t have made it,’_ Ed finished flatly; despite the furious atmosphere, their teammates cringed right along with Parker. The sniper waited out the cringing, then shook his head. _‘You guys remember right after the Netherworld? How Greg was slipping away, right in front of us?’_ At the silent nods, he smirked mirthlessly. _‘We wanted him to live. We wanted him to live so bad that we_ volunteered _for this.’_ Turning back to the shocked man on the couch, Ed crouched to meet his eyes. _‘Greg, I think you were too far gone. We did everything we could, the_ goblins _did everything they could, but your magical core was still too damaged for you to survive. The_ only _way for you to_ live _was…’_

_‘…for us to support him?’_ Wordy hazarded. _‘Magically support him until the core could heal?’_

Turning on his heels, Ed nodded. _‘Right on the money, Word. But that meant his magic had to really get a good grip on us and we couldn’t go too far.’_

Greg’s mouth dried up. Anchors. He’d referred to them that way in his own mind, but he’d never thought through the implications. Like a ship, he couldn’t go too far from his anchors without risking their integrity – or his own.

_‘We couldn’t leave Team One,’_ Sam realized. _‘Not without hurting the Boss.’_

Wordy shivered. _‘But…but I_ did _almost leave Team One,’_ he pointed out.

_‘Slow down, Word; we’re not that far yet,’_ Ed chided. _‘So, ‘team sense’ number one, that was us as Greg’s emergency net. Number two wasn’t much different, ‘cept we knew about it and we’d accepted it, so the anchors couldn’t break like they did with number one.’_

Spike’s eyes lit up. _‘But to be unbreakable, they had to start channeling Sarge’s magic into us?’_ he guessed.

The lean Sergeant tipped his chin. _‘That’s what I think,’_ he agreed. _‘And since Greg_ physically _needed us to stick close, that’s what his magic influenced us into.’_ He skewered a glance at Sam and Jules. _‘We’ll never know how we might’ve reacted without Greg’s magic doing that.’_

Greg squirmed; even with Ed’s perspective, he _still_ hated what his magic had done to his friends. How it had forced them into decisions they might not have made and compromised morals they might’ve upheld.

_‘I need to whack you upside the head again, Greg?’_ Ed questioned tartly. _‘We_ volunteered _for this, remember?’_

_‘But…’_

_‘No,’_ Ed said, firm and unyielding. _‘Maybe we didn’t know what we were getting into, but we still made that call. And I’d do it again if I had to.’_ He meant it, too; Greg could feel it in his bones. Shifting back, the sniper continued, _‘So here’s the bottom line. If we’d stayed on number two, way I figure, we still would’ve ended up with magical signatures and the magic would’ve kept us close to Greg for awhile.’_

_‘Five years?’_ Lou offered. _‘Just to have a number?’_

_‘Sure,’_ Ed concurred. _‘And here’s the other thing, guys. Greg_ never _used it, but he could’ve given us magical orders, like he did right after Fletcher Stadium.’_

Greg flinched and he couldn’t miss the sharp indrawn breaths from his teammates. The implication was clear and he knew they hadn’t missed it. Magical orders…orders they couldn’t disobey, even if they wanted to. Shame bowed his shoulders. Only for his entire body to jerk as Eddie whacked him upside the head.

_‘Stop brooding, Greg; that’s how we ended up here,’_ the other Sergeant snapped. _‘I’ll say it again if I have to: you_ never _used that ability before Fletcher Stadium. And you_ were _getting better.’_

Sam nodded, a tiny smile appearing. _‘He’s right, Boss. Took you awhile, but you were starting to turn the ‘team sense’ off pretty regular and everything was fine.’_ He shrugged, ignoring the askance looks. _‘Guys, I’m with Ed. If that was the_ only _way to save Sarge’s life…hey, it_ worked _.’_

_‘Until Roy,’_ Lou whispered.

Ed sighed, tipping his head in acknowledgement. _‘Roy’s where things get dicey,’_ he admitted. _‘But bear with me guys. At that point, ‘team sense’ number two was kaput and so was Greg’s core._ Again _. Lucky for the Boss, his magic stuck to Roy and the damage to his core wasn’t an issue until after McKean.’_

Greg squinted at his fellow Sergeant. _‘You think the taint happened at McKean, Eddie?’_

_‘Yes,’_ Ed confirmed. _‘And I’ll tell you why, Greg. Lance had your magic and he went toe-to-toe with Airwolf’s Obscurus.’_

Jules gasped. _‘It hit him,’_ she filled in. _‘That’s when he landed on you, Boss.’_

An ashen Spike filled in the rest. _‘And you got your magic back, but it got tainted by the Obscurus.’_

_‘Plus it didn’t merge right,’_ Sam muttered.

_‘So how’d the ‘team sense’ miss out on the taint?’_ Wordy asked, sticking to practicalities.

Parker frowned, an idea formulating. _‘Because…because you guys still had that part of my magic?’_ he offered. _‘Number two ‘team sense’ reformed once my magic was back?’_

Caught off guard, Ed blinked, considering the idea. _‘That…that might be it, Boss,’_ he finally conceded. _‘I was thinking the ‘team sense’ got lucky, but that makes more sense.’_ He nodded to himself. _‘Especially since the only difference I could figure between before and after McKean was your core.’_

With a sigh, Greg lifted his hand to rub his head, tossing Ed a glare when the lean man knocked his hand away. _‘Eddie.’_

_‘Greg, your hands are already bad, let’s not make ‘em worse.’_

Greg glared harder, then gave it up as a bad job. _‘Fine,’_ he snipped. _‘So, after McKean, my core really didn’t heal, did it?’_

Ed shook his head. _‘No, I don’t think it did,’_ he agreed. _‘Didn’t get better, didn’t get worse; everything was in limbo except for that taint thing.’_

_‘Until Fletcher Stadium,’_ Jules murmured. _‘The gryphon got out and the ‘team sense’ got tainted.’_

Parker flinched, a fact that did not go unnoticed.

_‘Sarge?’_ Wordy questioned, no longer hostile, but still wary.

For a very long minute, Greg didn’t reply. Then he forced his head up and the words out. _‘You guys already know about the tainted magic.’_

The team nodded, half of them watching him and the other half watching Eddie.

_‘There was one other thing the gryphon did,’_ Greg confessed. _‘It… When it tainted the ‘team sense’, it also forced all of you to trust me with everything you have, no matter_ what _.’_ The smile felt more like a grimace. _‘Like I said to Eddie, on a scale of one to ten, your trust in me is a twenty.’_

_‘That’s our biggest problem,’_ Ed tacked on somberly. _‘Greg could do the magical orders thing all along, but before, it would’ve been hard, but we_ could _have fought it. Now we can’t.’_ His eyes darkened. _‘And one other thing, guys. We all chose to keep the ‘team sense’, yeah?’_

The nods were reluctant, but there.

Lane looked down, swallowing convulsively. _‘That’s just it, guys._ We _got to chose. But Greg didn’t.’_

_‘Wait,_ what _?’_ Wordy blurted, jaw dropping. _‘He didn’t give_ you _a choice, Sarge?’_

Rather than speak, Greg simply shook his head. Aching pain rose at the memory. _‘Wordy, I_ begged _Him to let all of you go, to give you back your freedom. And He gave you a choice, but He told me that I had to respect your choices.’_

Very, very softly, Lou whispered, _‘And we can never again choose the other.’_

Silence draped the room, every occupant squirming at the dawning truth of their situation. Greg’s squirming was worse as guilt assailed him, shrieking condemnation for not telling them his one last secret.

Just as Ed was drawing breath to speak again, Greg tapped the ‘team sense’, silently requesting the floor. _‘There…there is one other thing.’_

All heads turned, even Ed caught off guard. _‘Greg?’_

_‘I…’_ A harsh gulp, another summoning of will. _‘You guys already know I had to use magical orders so you’d get checked and treated for tainted magic right after Fletcher Stadium.’_

_‘Sure, Boss,’_ Spike agreed, the rest indicating their own agreement. The bomb tech shivered. _‘Never said thanks for that, Boss. But, yeah…thanks…that was freaky the next day, realizing how bad it could’ve turned out…’_

_‘Seconded,’_ Ed concurred, shivering himself.

_‘Well…I’ve…I’ve used them since then,’_ Greg confessed. His shoulders hunched at the demanding, accusing looks.

_‘Wait a sec,’_ Ed interjected. _‘Greg? Right after Fletcher Stadium, you kept goin’ out of your way to keep from giving us_ any _orders, so…’_ The sentence dangled, implication clear. Why? Why had he given them magical orders when he’d fought so hard to _not_ do that?

It was Greg’s turn to shiver and shame dragged his gaze downwards once more. _‘Eddie, I couldn’t_ stop _myself. They’d just…come out…and I couldn’t stop it.’_ A hesitation. _‘I couldn’t un-do them either,’_ he whispered. _‘I tried, but…it was like my body wouldn’t respond. Like my magic just…grabbed hold and wouldn’t_ let _me do it.’_

His teammates rocked, but worse, Greg caught an edge of recognition from Wordy and Lou. Involuntarily, his gaze rose, pinning them and demanding an answer.

Wordy fidgeted unhappily. _‘Umm…after you, umm…’_

_‘Disappeared,’_ Lou put in smoothly.

_‘Yeah, that…’_ The brunet drew in a deep breath of air. _‘I, ah, I didn’t react all that well, Sarge. Started pushing everyone away, just like you.’_

Hazel softened. _‘I’m sorry, Wordy.’_

The big man nodded and shook himself. _‘So, um, after everyone got_ Imperiused _, when Lou and I were at the safe house, Lou hauled me downstairs and read me the riot act.’_

_‘You’re lucky_ he _did,’_ Ed growled. _‘Otherwise I would’ve done it, Word.’_

The team leader flinched. _‘Copy that, Ed.’_ Pure misery rose. _‘See, the thing is, that’s when it happened. My magic reacted…_ Lou’s _magic reacted.’_

Wait, what? _Lou_ had magic? Greg gawked, incredulous. He wasn’t the only one; the rest of Team One was just as shocked. Feeling the stares, Lou nodded. _‘He’s right, Boss; I’ve got magic now. I bet all of us do.’_

Parker’s eyes widened, but somehow he didn’t doubt that Lou was right. It would make sense, an awful, horrid kind of sense, that after three years of having his magic swim inside of them, his friends _all_ had magic. His gut squirmed anew at the thought of how much his magic had _changed_ them, forcibly and against their will. Just like that, he _knew_ what Wordy was struggling to say.

_‘Wordy,’_ he whispered, _‘The magic forced you into opening up again?’_

For a very long moment, Wordy didn’t answer. Then he met Greg’s eyes and quipped, _‘Hole in one, Sarge.’_

Oh, dear _Aslan_ … What had he _done_? What was he _doing_ to them? Guilt screamed, pressing in from all sides. His fault, all _his_ fault. His magic, his needs, his _fault_. They didn’t deserve what he’d done to them, but how could he stop it? How could he _free_ them? They should leave, run as far as they could, but…but his power would just reel them right back in, like fish on a line.

“Greg,” Eddie murmured, dragging his attention back up. Numb, he couldn’t muster a glare for Ed’s risky use of his real name. “We can drop it, okay. It’s late, that’s enough.”

“Thanks,” he managed.

“Wait.” Five lethal glares swung to Lou, but he refused to back down. The ‘team sense’ pulsed once more. _‘Boss, what happened during the fire?’_

The glares halted, interest and curiosity immediately swinging to Parker. Greg cringed, wanting nothing more than to be left alone so he could bury himself in Elias’s bed and pretend the moisture soaking the pillow was just sweat and dusty eyes.

_‘Sarge, he’s right,’_ Wordy put in, sympathy shimmering. _‘If we supposedly pulled you outta that fire, then we gotta know what happened.’_

Point. Sorrowful, Greg nodded. _‘Just the basics, all right?’_

_‘Copy,’_ Ed agreed.

Basics…he could do that… _‘After Holleran went down, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer,’_ Greg confessed. _‘Eddie, you actually gave me the last piece of the puzzle when you told me Brenda signed the warrant for Elias’s arrest.’_

His fellow Sergeant nodded, both in acknowledgement and to confirm the chain of events to their teammates.

_‘After that, I put the pieces together and I realized Brenda had probably been feeding Castor intel on me for the whole time I’d been under.’_ Grim, Parker straightened. _‘I’d already been setting up a last resort, but once I knew…I had to use it.’_

_‘Wait a sec,’_ Wordy hissed. _‘That was_ your _trap? Not Troy’s?’_

_‘That’s right, Wordy,’_ Greg confirmed sadly. _‘I set up the trap and I lured them into it.’_ A faint, remembering grimace. _‘I thought it would just be Castor. I figured he wouldn’t want Brenda to blow her cover, but they both showed up.’_ The stocky man’s shoulders slumped. _‘I couldn’t risk it, guys. I triggered the fire and took them on; two on one. They were on my turf and I had control over the lights, so it took awhile, but I beat them.’_

_‘And then?’_ Ed asked, tone level and betraying nothing.

Hazel lifted, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to meet his best friend’s eyes. _‘I, um, I grabbed my Auror badge to trigger the Portkey and something hit me.’_

Dead silence. _‘What?’_ Spike finally croaked. _‘What hit you?’_

Parker cringed. _‘I don’t know, Spike. A pipe, a piece of debris…I just don’t know. When I woke up, I was already in Colorado and I had that blasted collar around my neck.’_ He paused, thinking hard. _‘I, um, I’m pretty sure I had a lump on the back of my head, but, um, that healed up awhile back…’_

Wordy shook his head. _‘Sarge, you’d have a lump either way,’_ he observed. _‘That doesn’t tell us if you were attacked, but someone_ had _to be there, am I right?’_

A jerky nod. _‘Yes, Wordy; otherwise, I_ would _have died in the fire.’_

An uneasy quiet settled around them and Greg was thankful when Eddie broke it with a brisk set of orders for everyone to head for bed and get some sleep – they were gonna need it. As Team One trickled out of the penthouse and back to their rooms, Ed supported Greg to his bed, then departed for the night himself.

Finally alone, Greg stared at the ceiling with abject misery. He’d lost them – if he hadn’t told that last secret, maybe he could’ve kept his family together. But to keep _lying_ to them… He just couldn’t do it anymore. He’d known what would happen, but still, he’d told them the truth. It didn’t make losing his family any easier to handle.

Curling on his side, the lonely man did his best to fall asleep. He’d lost his friends to his own actions, but he’d gotten them into this situation and he would darn well get them out of his undercover assignment intact. Then he could retire from the SRU and really, _truly_ let them go.

No matter how much it hurt.


	6. Going Down Together

The next morning, Greg was not entirely surprised when only Eddie and Wordy showed up to help him get through showering, dressing, and eating. At the tail end of breakfast, Sam turned up with an assortment of potions, but the blond sniper didn’t speak any more than necessary as he passed off the pain and nutrient potions before busying himself with the other two. The haggard Sergeant didn’t object, merely cooperating with his constable’s assistance and doing his best to keep both his magic and his emotions to himself. He’d done more than enough damage after all; no need to make things even worse.

Ready for another day, the negotiator summoned up his mob boss identity and stalked out of the penthouse, his crew just a few paces behind. The other three materialized before he reached the main part of his organization’s headquarters, but remained thoughtful and quiet. Inwardly, Elias ached, but outwardly, he focused on Anthony and began making plans to draw out the only remaining Troy sibling. His plan was simple; he would report to Holleran each day, but deliberately ignore his new handler, making it plain as day that he didn’t trust the man and wouldn’t give him anything.

When confronted, Elias would counter with Brenda’s betrayal and his subsequent two months ‘recovering’. With any luck, the man’s reaction would tell the veteran negotiator which side he was on. He knew he couldn’t completely count on reading the IS detective correctly, but that was what his backup was for. Elias knew they were angry with him and didn’t want anything more to do with him, but they _would_ back him up. As for Pollux, the best Elias could come up with was a waiting game. He could attempt to put in a squeeze play on Castor’s remaining men and see if that netted him anything, but there were no guarantees.

Still, Pollux wasn’t a fool. He had to know that Elias was as vulnerable as he would ever be; once the week was over and he was back in the SRU, it would be that much harder to take him out. And given the resentment and hatred Elias had seen oozing off Romulus, well… It was unlikely that Pollux would pass up such a prime opportunity to take his brother’s killer down. Just as Elias himself had fought to _protect_ his family, so Pollux would fight to _avenge_ his family. The secret negotiator wished he could’ve made a different decision, but…but no, to risk his family was something he would not do and Castor had made it clear he wasn’t above killing children. Not even infants had been safe from his hateful vendetta.

So Elias sent every last one of his doubts packing and got down to brass tacks. He would squeeze Castor Troy’s men and use the Ra-Kacharz to best advantage, forcing both of his opponents out into the open so they could be taken down and arrested. Not killed – _arrested_. The undercover officer might have sacrificed his morals to protect his _nipotes_ and stop Castor Troy, but Pollux wasn’t nearly as dangerous unless he’d misjudged the man badly. Even if he had, it was unlikely that Pollux could pull off the prison escape his older twin had.

He’d killed like a mob boss once; he wouldn’t do it again unless it was the _only_ option. Nor would he do it to protect _himself_ – no, only if a member of his former team or his family was on the line. If that meant he went down, so be it; his friends would be free at last and while they’d have to grieve all over again, surely it would be easier since they hated him. Hated his magic.

* * * * *

Foolish humans. Didn’t they realize, didn’t they _understand_?

The magic hummed just beneath its human’s skin, a hint of contempt lurking. Despite the cleansing it had undergone, eliminating most of its independence and removing the taint, still the magic maintained a sentience far greater than it should have. Although Ed Lane was _correct_ in that the taint had been caused by the Obscurus, the Wild Magic’s initial independence and, indeed, its sentience, had come from another source.

During his imprisonment in the Netherworld, Greg Parker’s soul had been implanted with a tiny hint of Dark Magic by the demon Tolay. Over time, that demonic power had grown, gaining strength and engraining itself in every scrap of power available to Parker. Even when Aslan had overruled Tash’s attempt to twist the Sergeant’s magic, still that tiny hint of Dark Magic survived, becoming an integral part of Greg’s abilities and his connections to his team.

The Wild Magic itself had developed a demonic tendency to see all humans as foolish and blind to anything beyond their narrow sphere of influence. That tendency soon became outright disdain and contempt, leading Greg’s magic to develop a regular habit of overruling _his_ free will. Once it had done _that_ – and gotten away with it – well, from there, it had seen no trouble at all with overriding his _teammates’_ free will.

And yet, despite all of that, the magic still retained a powerful loyalty and deference to the Emperor-beyond-the-Sea and His Son. Every time it had overruled Greg’s free will, there had been a crucial, critical reason for doing so, though the humans remained oblivious. The Wild Magic curled around its human, still disdainful, but, for the first time, it bowed to its human’s aversion to influencing his own.

The task it had been given by the Emperor-beyond-the-Sea was complete and every one of His Gifts granted. In the wake of that success, the Lion’s final command came into play. He knew about the demonic twist to Greg’s Wild Magic, but had permitted it to remain on one condition. He had ordered the magic to cease its interference once the Gifts were granted. It could no longer act without the conscious intent of its bearer, regardless of circumstance.

And so, the Wild Magic settled into Greg’s skin and withdrew from his teammates. It knew better and silently sneered at its human’s foolishness, but it could not disobey the great Lion. It could not act, save in the greatest of need.

For the first time since the Netherworld, the magic could do naught but wait.

* * * * *

Elias frowned as he and Anthony discussed the latest updates from the Ra-Kacharz. Unless he missed his guess, Pollux was starting to make his moves. In a somewhat unnerving turn of events, his handler hadn’t tried to contact him. Not even once. He’d expected an indignant phone call at the very least – the complete _lack_ of contact had left him wondering if he was right in his suspicions. Maybe the man had heard his declaration that he’d continue reporting to Commander Holleran as a none-too-subtle ‘get lost’. Or he’d figured that Elias had seen right through him and decided not to bother trying to fool him.

At the same time, the undercover officer was trying to ignore the fact that he and Anthony were alone; his ‘crew’ had made themselves as scarce as they could while under the scrutiny of every last one of Elias’s jealous chiefs. Oh, they were still helping him and backing him up during meetings, but aside from those meetings, the ‘team sense’ was never on and the emotional support he’d had during those first few days back in Toronto had evaporated.

All those years and he’d thrown them away in a split second. If he hadn’t been doing his best to keep Anthony from discovering the growing rift between himself and his friends, he might’ve broken down. Anthony already suspected and he’d begun lobbying for Elias to _stay_ undercover. The longtime mobster didn’t really _care_ that it would mean answering to a cop for however long the assignment lasted, he just wanted to keep a boss he’d come to respect. The irony had not escaped Elias, but despite his two successful months undercover, he knew he wasn’t cut out for fulltime undercover work.

Heck, without support, he wasn’t even cut out for a _week_ of undercover work. For the past two days, the crime lord had been struggling to keep from slipping back into broken English. Even with frequent rests, his magic no longer possessed the reserves to keep pushing through that lingering disability. He had a nasty headache that hadn’t surrendered to either the pain potion or the aspirin he’d quietly sent Anthony for and he was starting to feel very queasy, as though something was wrong…more than just his hands and feet.

Mentally, Elias calculated how much longer the meeting had to last, trying to figure out if he could slip off and just _sleep_ until it was dinnertime. Then he blinked, realizing he’d missed the last part of his second’s report. “Anthony…what…was that last part?” Hang it all! What a time for his disability to kick in…

Suddenly, Anthony was right next to him instead of on the other side of the table. “Whoa. You okay, Boss?”

Hadn’t he just… blinked?

Hands gripped him, keeping him partially upright…when had he fallen? His stomach screamed and he tried to curl, arms going around his middle as he panted, straining to hold back the vicious bubble of nausea. A bucket materialized and the ill man leaned forward and retched, only vaguely aware of the support keeping him from falling again. He could feel a faint buzz against his skin…the feel of water dripping down his forehead.

A name wrenched his insides and he mumbled it, wishing, fervently, that he could cry. But…but he couldn’t…he was trapped. Gryphons couldn’t cry, their eyes weren’t designed for it. Maybe…maybe…if he could make it home…he could be free? Apologize with all his heart to his friend…his brother… He was sorry he’d ever done it, ever lied to the one person who’d never given up on him… He didn’t deserve such a great friend, not with how he’d kept secrets and…

And he was alone…that…that was justice. It was what he’d deserved for a very long time… Even if his insides twisted and his heart wept, crying out for a _friend_ …

* * * * *

Ed tried to keep from shivering as, once again, his mind replayed that awful moment when Greg had _admitted_ to using magical orders. For more than just getting rid of the tainted magic. They had _trusted_ him and he had…he’d _betrayed_ them. The magic within him, it kept trying to make him forget, but he fought it off once more. No, he _wasn’t_ going to forget. He wasn’t going to forgive Greg this time. He wasn’t going to go back to being an oblivious, blind _fool_ who trusted simply because his former friend’s tainted magic _forced_ him to. Once this week was over, Greg could go to another team and good riddance. The team had talked over the past four days, as much as they could while undercover anyway, and all of them agreed. Greg had crossed the line; he’d _known_ what he could do and he’d _done_ it. Abused his authority and broken faith with them. And he hadn’t even had the _decency_ to tell them _what_ the orders had been.

“Scott!”

The Sergeant’s brow furrowed and he swung around, casting Scarface a glare. “What?” he demanded irritably.

Before Ed quite knew what the mobster was up to, Scarface had closed the distance and shoved him through a nearby door; the cop stiffened in alarm before he realized it was just a staircase. One of the emergency exits. “What’s your _real_ name?” the criminal hissed.

“Need-to-know,” the sniper countered flatly, keeping his own voice low. _And you don’t._

Emotion flashed in the other man’s eyes, then Scarface grabbed his jacket collar and hauled, forcing Ed’s head down to his level. “I’m not gonna ask again, _cop_ ,” he snarled.

The Sergeant swallowed hard, then whispered, “Ed Lane.”

Satisfaction blazed. “Thought so,” Scarface grunted.

Then, without releasing his hold on Ed’s jacket, he dragged the taller man up the stairs and threw him through another door. Lane nearly fell, but managed to catch his balance. Confusion and bewilderment shone as he stared at his onetime boss’s _new_ best friend. Scarface growled and advanced again, shoving Ed towards another door partway down the corridor. The sniper let himself be pushed, the better to figure out what the _heck_ his rival was up to.

Once through the door, Ed heard the distinct sounds of someone being sick and realization dawned. Without hesitation, he scrambled around the table to Greg’s side, aware of Scarface on his heels, but not caring. Except…

“Close that door,” he snapped, not bothering to look back. Then he was by his friend and down next to him. “Greg?”

Parker moaned and hunched over the bucket in front of him, shivering and oblivious to his company.

“Come on, Greg, snap out of it,” Ed hissed. Right in the middle of an undercover assignment was a _really_ bad time to lose it.

“S…sorry, Eddie,” Greg whispered, but he was still staring at the bucket. “Sorry, sorry I didn’t tell you…”

“Tell me what?” Ed prompted, trying to break through the haze.

Without warning, Greg toppled sideways, fortunately missing the bucket as he fell. Once on the ground, he tried to curl up, making several distinctly gryphon noises as his head shifted back and forth, glazed hazel darting to and fro. He didn’t seem to be aware of his surroundings, nor the fact that he wasn’t alone.

Ed growled and reached down, grabbing his friend’s arm and pulling him upright again. “Greg, snap out of it.”

“Home,” Greg whimpered, leaning into Ed’s shirt without reacting to his voice. “Gotta…gotta get home… So…so sorry, Eddie…”

Lane froze, anger draining away as he stared at the gaunt, stocky man. No. No. This _wasn’t_ happening. Greg was _not_ having delusions right in the middle of Elias’s headquarters with an anxious Scarface hanging over both their shoulders. Sweat soaked his shirt fabric, coming from the mumbling, delirious undercover officer. Wait…

Sweating. Delusional. Muttering and oblivious to company. Ed had _seen_ these symptoms before…just not from _Greg_. Oh… _hell_. “Greg,” the sniper hissed. “Listen to me…stop using your magic. Stop it, stop it right now.”

The other man didn’t even twitch; the mumbles were growing softer, unintelligible.

“Greg, come on, snap out of it,” Ed whispered, desperation shining. “Stop it; you gotta stop using your magic.”

A keen rattled the air, a hopeless, pleading sound that drove the last of the anger out of Ed’s heart, even as it slammed a _dagger_ through his soul and _twisted_. Greg wasn’t aware anymore and he was _lonely_ beyond belief. He was trapped in the nightmare of fighting to come _home_ and never having anyone else to lean on or even _talk_ to.

How could he have forgotten that? How could he have forgotten how hard Greg had fought to come home? How, even in terrible, excruciating agony, Greg had saved his life? So angry at Greg, so jealous of Scarface, he’d forgotten and he’d walked away from his best _friend_. Again.

“Hey, hey,” Ed coaxed, trying to break through the delusion. “I’m here, Greg, I’m here. I’m with you, buddy. You wanna talk? I’m right here; I’m not goin’ anywhere, promise.” Without thinking, he reached down, curling his hand around Greg’s wrist, touching him, skin-to-skin.

His eyes burned with power, illuminating the gaunt, haggard form in front of him. He _saw_ , straight through flesh and bone to the magical core below. It was almost completely drained and just as dark. Not so much as a spark of magic left and for some reason, it wasn’t generating any more. Faint, concentric cylinders defined the core, but most of it looked like…like scaffolding. Short term, meant to be used for _construction_ , not actual _use_. What…what was Greg _living_ on? How could he survive with such an incomplete, _damaged_ magical core?

Power slid into the core, tinted yellow. Ed stared in morbid fascination as a thread he hadn’t even noticed started to glow, just as yellow as the magic now streaming through it. His link to Greg, alive once more…how had it been shut down? But he knew – he’d pulled away from his friend, anger and resentment boiling over. And Greg…Greg had let him. He’d just accepted their furious reactions as nothing less than what he deserved.

Guilt squirmed in Ed’s gut as he watched his magic nudge Greg’s limp core back into motion. Against his chest, Greg let out a sigh, relaxing as power started to flow again. The Sergeant adjusted, bringing his other hand across to push up his brother’s shirt. Refusing to feel embarrassment, Ed gripped his friend’s side, _willing_ the power within him to work, to bring Greg back from the brink.

The vision of Greg’s core faded, but the knowledge he’d gained did not. He’d been so very, very wrong. Greg _needed_ them, needed them more than ever before – without _them_ , he would die a slow, agonizing death, torn apart from within by his magic draining away to nothing. Instinct whispered, warning him – he dared not release Greg yet. Until his boss’s core started generating its own magic again, Parker couldn’t maintain the ‘team sense’. And without the ‘team sense’, the only way for him to _get_ the power he needed was direct, physical contact.

But he couldn’t stay here for the hours that would require! And if the chiefs saw ‘Elias’s’ limp body in his arms…well, Ed wasn’t sure what would happen, but he doubted it would be anything good. An idea prickled, almost certainly from the magic. If he could get his teammates to do as he had done – touch Greg skin-to-skin – that burst of magic from _all_ of them would jumpstart the core, much like a car battery. His friend might need more later on, but at least he’d be out of immediate danger.

First though, he needed to get Greg back to Elias’s penthouse. For that, he’d need help from Scarface. The sniper glanced up at the other man, noting the worry etched on his face. “It happened fast?”

The mobster’s jaw tightened, brow furrowing, then he offered a clipped nod. “Yeah. I mean, he’s had a headache all morning, but nothin’ like this.”

Guilt squirmed again. A headache that had survived Greg’s morning pain potion? If one of them had been _with_ Greg, they would’ve known something was up. But instead they’d been busy nursing hurt feelings and manufacturing resentment over something Greg hadn’t had any control over. Wait…how did he know that?

Ed pushed aside the musing and stuck to the facts. “Lemme guess. He went down, started throwing up, then stopped responding.”

A solemn nod. “You seen this?” Scarface demanded.

“Not from Greg,” Ed replied truthfully.

“What’s wrong?” the mobster hissed, fists clenching.

Oh, _this_ was going to go over like a lead balloon. Ed let his jaw work a moment, then replied, “That’s classified.”

“Classified.” Scarface deadpanned the word, glare reaching downright lethal levels. “Try again, _cop_.”

Ed quirked a brow. “What, you think that’s gonna get you what you want all the time?” Without waiting for a response, he shook his head. “Greg would tell you the _exact_ same thing I am; it’s _classified_. _Federally_ classified.”

Frustration burned on the criminal’s face and Ed felt an unexpected sympathy for his position. After all, if it had been _him_ in Scarface’s shoes, well, he’d have rattled any cage he could to find out why a friend of his had collapsed. Would’ve steamrolled over ‘classified’ so fast it wasn’t even funny. And if someone had tried to _keep_ him from finding out _why_ Greg was hurt – the phrase ‘no holds barred’ came to mind.

“Look, I get it,” Ed murmured. “You know what? When he wakes up, I’ll ask him if he wants you to know. The Boss says yes, I’ll tell you myself.”

“Even though it’s _classified_?” Scarface questioned, insinuation dripping from the sarcasm.

The sniper didn’t flinch. “Greg has the authority to sign new people onto this law. We’ve done it in the past when we had to.” Technically, Ed now had that same authority, but he would not trust Scarface, a known criminal, with any knowledge of magic. He doubted Greg would either, but he would at least ask. Drawing in a breath, Lane met Scarface’s gaze again. “We need to get him back to the penthouse.”

The mobster frowned, but forebode to argue about the change of subject. “Anything _else_ you need, Scotty-boy?”

“Yeah,” Ed confirmed, refusing to rise to the other’s bait. “I need you to round up my crew.”

Resentment smoldered and for a moment Ed feared he’d gone too far, but at last, Scarface offered a clipped nod and rose. Lane adjusted his position and followed suit, hefting Greg up in his arms, maintaining their skin-to-skin contact.

_Hang in there, Greg. I’m going to fix this. I swear it._

* * * * *

The good news? Scarface had gotten himself and Greg up to the penthouse without being seen. The bad news? He was demanding to know how on Earth dragging more people into the situation was going to help. And really, it _was_ a fair question, Ed had to admit. In all honesty, Lane had gotten so used to the insanity and – dare he say it – downright illogic of the magical world that he hadn’t even considered how idiotic his request would sound. And saying ‘trust me’ just wasn’t going to cut it.

Unfortunately, that meant Ed was going to have to give the mobster something more than ‘it’s classified’. Sighing inwardly, the sniper asked, “Ever heard of the Official Secrets Act?”

Scarface lit up with glee, but couldn’t hide the flash of confusion. Mute, he shook his head.

“That’s what we’re signed onto,” Ed explained. “And it covers stuff that would curl your hair. Every single country around the world has a law like this.” The bald Sergeant shook his head. “Some days, I wish we’d never found out about any of this. ‘Cause we’ve paid ten times over for it and we’re _still_ paying for it.”

The mobster drew back, defiant and unnerved all at once. “Knowing this…whatever… That’s why the Boss is hurt?”

“Yes,” Lane replied, tone harsh, expression unyielding. Magic _had_ led directly to Greg’s current state. If he’d never found out about his own magic, he wouldn’t have started using it and he never would’ve ended up with a heavily damaged magical core.

With a sense of satisfaction, Ed watched Scarface eye Greg and decide discretion was the better part of valor. “Fine,” he growled. “I’ll get them.”

The sniper was grateful the man had given in; he was starting to get a rather queasy sensation in his gut. As if he didn’t _have_ enough magic to help Greg, not by himself. Mentally, he griped to himself about the monumental unfairness that he’d not only – somehow – _developed_ magical talents, but he was now _dependant_ on magic for his own survival. After spending the past few years watching his friend struggle with one magical complication after another, Ed had _no_ interest in possessing magic himself. Sadly, it really didn’t matter whether he _wanted_ magic or not…he had it now.

“Scott?”

“In here, guys,” Ed called. He and Scarface had managed to get Greg to the penthouse’s couch – aside from the bedroom, the small living room was the most defensible location in the penthouse. Anyone coming in had to navigate a short set of hallways that gave the defenders an advantage in a potential fight.

Wordy appeared in the doorway, automatically stiffening at the sight of their boss. Then he looked closer and gray widened in concern. “What’s wrong with him?”

As he spoke, the team leader moved inside and crossed to the couch. Ed had managed to position himself behind the plush couch, one hand gripping Parker’s shoulder, right at the gap between the shirt collar and his neck. Greg hadn’t regained consciousness, but he wasn’t getting any worse either. The rest of their teammates trickled in, grimacing at the sight of their Boss unconscious.

**“What’s wrong is we’re a bunch of idiots,”** Ed growled, swapping to Narnian as a precaution. Scarface hadn’t poked his head in, but if _he’d_ been in the other man’s shoes, he would’ve found a way to eavesdrop. In a heartbeat. **“We got all indignant about** Þegen **giving us magical orders and we _forgot_ he _needs_ us.”**

Sam let out a snort. **“He doesn’t need us,”** the blond snapped, crossing his arms. **“He’s got _them_ now.”**

One brow arched. **“ _Sure_ , **Sawyl. **He half-killed himself coming home… _just_ so he could go undercover again.”**

The team blanched.

**“Here’s the bottom line, guys,”** Ed growled, **“We screwed up and now** Þegen’s **running on fumes.”** Before Sam could speak, the Sergeant pointed at him. **“You _do_ remember when** Wyrdig **came within about thirty seconds of draining his core dry, _right_?”**

The blond’s expression turned mulish, but Spike recoiled, paling at the reference. But there was also a shimmer of confusion. “Éadweard, Wyrdig **was…”**

**“Sweating like no tomorrow, throwing up, and delirious,”** Ed ticked off. **“That’s exactly what** Þegen **was doing when Scarface came lookin’ for me.”** Grim, the Sergeant glared at his team. **“Look, I’m not any happier about the magical orders then you guys are, but it wouldn’t be the _first_ time **Þegen’s **magic pulled a fast one. We’re just mad ‘cause _this_ time, _we_ ended up pulling the short end.”**

He let them absorb his argument, then leaned forward, intensity glowing. **“Well guess what, guys. Now it’s** _Þegen_ **pulling the short end, ‘cause his core _needs_ us and we walked away.”** Blue narrowed. **“I was gonna talk you around, but I changed my mind. Get over here.** Wyrdig, **pull** Þegen’s **shirt up and then everyone squeeze in.”** When none of them moved, his glare turned lethal. **“ _Now_.”**

Spike moved first, followed by Lou. The two computer techs traded glances, then separated, one going behind the couch and the other ending up at their boss’s shoulder. Almost in sync, they reached out, resting their palms on the backs of Greg’s hands. Ed couldn’t see Lou’s eyes from his position, but he did see Spike’s glow green. Curious, he glanced down and sucked in a breath as the faint vision of Parker’s core reappeared, glimmering with shades of yellow, bronze, and green. His own thread was pulsing and the other two slowly lit as the links re-established themselves.

Even as he watched, blue joined the first three shades, followed by a fierce pink. The sniper looked up, meeting his fellow sniper’s gaze. Sam still hadn’t budged; fear shone beneath the resentment. Ed understood, he really did. For a _sniper_ to lose any sort of control over a situation… It wasn’t good; as a breed, they _hated_ losing control because you _had_ to have as much control as possible when you were shooting long distance. Otherwise you _missed_ and that was never good, especially for a sniper who’d already been through a friendly-fire incident.

In a way, he was going through the same issues as Sam, particularly since it had been _his_ round that had detonated the bomb Spike had been forced to build. Ed remembered it, remembered _all_ of it, and the worst part… He hadn’t fought, not even a smidge. The _memory_ of that pure _bliss_ haunted his dreams; he’d been completely relaxed, utterly content – he’d never wanted that feeling to end. He would’ve done whatever he had to just to keep on feeling that bliss and living in a perfect dream world where all he had to do was obey. A part of him _still_ wanted that.

“Sawyl, **come on,”** Ed whispered. **“We never asked him what he ordered us to do, we just got mad and stomped out.”**

Distress twisted Sam’s face. **“And what if his _magic_ makes us forget about it?”** he demanded. **“What if it just makes us _trust_ him again and keep _on_ trusting him, no matter what he does to us?”**

**“What he does to us?”** Ed echoed. **“What, you mean like when he saved me from a fire, even after he’d walked all the skin off his feet? You mean like when he saved** Wyrdig **_three_ times and never once complained about pushing his limits? How about when he somehow channeled enough magic to **Hyrste **that she was able to keep pressure on an _arterial_ puncture wound until you and **Léw **could get to her?”** He stopped, watching Sam waver, then added, **“How about when he used those magical orders to _make_ us get checked out for tainted magic? He didn’t have to do that, **Sawyl. **We never would’ve argued; for crying out loud, we were _happy_. Just like we were _happy_ under the _Imperius_. **Þegen’s **the one who put his foot down and _made_ us get treated.”**

For a long moment, Sam stared at them, not budging, then his shoulders slumped and he walked forward, edging in beside Jules. He gazed down at the haggard, gaunt form, then reached out, fingers lightly touching Greg’s chest just as they’d once touched Wordy’s chest at McKean. Silver danced around the contact and Parker’s core reappeared one last time. The limp silver thread came to life and Ed sucked in a breath as all six links _pulled_ , wrenching magic from their cores to restart Greg’s. The cylinders began to turn, each one turning the opposite direction of the one outside it, and Lane spied several locations where their magic was starting to replace the ‘scaffolding’ with something that looked…well, he wasn’t sure _what_ it looked like other than longer lasting.

The vision faded, but the ‘team sense’ unfurled, coming back online with a low hum of magical power. Ed nodded and stepped back; Greg was stable. He probably wasn’t waking up anytime soon, but he was stable. That would have to be enough, especially since he now had to explain to a bunch of mobsters why Elias wasn’t available.

Oh, _goodie_ …

* * * * *

Wordy was fully prepared to admit that Ed’s frontal assault had taken him by surprise, but then, Ed had always been very direct-to-threat. His friend was a fair negotiator when he needed to be, but there was a reason Ed was the team _tactician_. Faced with a situation that needed immediate action, of _course_ he’d skipped any sort of negotiation and gone straight to _demanding_ they fix a problem they’d caused.

The team leader felt rather sheepish as he trailed his Sergeant; in hindsight, they’d behaved like selfish prats. So they’d gotten the short end of the magical orders stick – wasn’t that _fair_ after how many short sticks _Sarge_ had drawn? The brunet still wasn’t happy about the situation – and he suspected Ed wasn’t either – but the sight of Sarge’s magical core had shaken him. The big constable was used to thinking of _his_ magical core as defective, but compared to _Sarge’s_ … Yeah, he was _never_ calling his core defective again.

_‘It’s getting better.’_

Huh? Wordy glanced up, right into understanding blue.

_‘Word, I’m not_ sure _, but I get the feeling that this was just really bad timing. Otherwise Greg would never be able to turn the ‘team sense’ off.’_

That made sense; before going undercover, Sarge had _regularly_ turned the ‘team sense’ off. The team leader frowned. _‘So how the heck did it get drained like that? If it was Sarge overriding his…’_

_‘Disability,’_ Ed filled in wryly.

_‘Yeah, that works,’_ Wordy agreed. _‘But he’s been doing that for the past four_ days _. If he was draining his core that badly, wouldn’t he_ notice _?’_

A sense of agreement touched him. _‘I hear you, buddy, and I think he would. It’s not just that, either,’_ Ed opined. _‘Greg made it all the way home with the ‘team sense’ blocked. No way he could’ve done that if his core wasn’t functioning.’_

_‘Gotta be something that happened this week,’_ Lou cut in.

Wordy struggled not to jump. Before, the ‘team sense’ telepathy had been like a magical version of the comms, but now it felt more…invasive. The other word that came to mind was _intimate_ , the very idea carrying implications that sent shivers up the married man’s back. He was really hoping the ‘team sense’ would dampen back down to the ‘comms’ once Sarge recovered from his core nearly shutting down.

In the meantime, it was like having six simultaneous trains of thought at once. Going in all different directions and with just as many emotions. He could _feel_ Sam’s conflicting emotions regarding the magical orders, right along with lingering issues from Ed, Jules, and Spike over the _Imperius_. Even Lou’s steady calm was rocking under the force of their teammates’ emotions – not to mention the flashes of memory they were getting from each other.

Wordy shivered as Ed’s thoughts brushed against his memories of the _Imperius_ again, a faint longing for that _bliss_ running through the ‘team sense’, almost as if his friend was fighting against an addiction. One hand rubbed against his bracelet, part of the brunet wishing he’d been able to use it to break the _Imperius_ , just as he had the _first_ time Ed had gotten _Imperiused_.

Shadows flicked back. _‘I had nightmares and cravings that time, too,’_ the lean sniper admitted. _‘So did Soph and Clark.’_

The team leader swallowed, painfully aware that none of their teammates had to ask for the context. They already knew. _‘Makes you wonder if it’s worth it.’_

Ed shook his head as he led the way through Elias’s headquarters. _‘Wordy, buddy…it’s_ gotta _be worth it. Otherwise, we’ve been through_ hell _for nothing.’_

So very, very true. Wordy offered a jerky nod and followed his Sergeant into a room. Inside, Scarface was leaning on a table, examining it with a closed, resentful expression on his face. As soon as the undercover officers swept in, the mobster demanded, “Where is he?”

“Still out, but stable,” Ed replied once Wordy shut the door. “Nat and Thor are keeping an eye on him, but I’m guessing something’s up.”

“Scott?” Wordy pressed, surprised all over again. Inside his head, he could practically _feel_ their teammates sit up and take notice.

Ed didn’t even twitch. “Private meeting, just the two of you,” he observed, facing Scarface head on. “Plus _that_ ,” he added, gesturing expansively at the map spread out on the table.

Scarface crossed his arms, sneering. “You ain’t the Boss.”

Team One’s Sergeant hiked a very pointed brow. “No, I’m not,” he agreed. “I’m his second.” The other man stiffened, but Ed smirked. “I’ve known him for almost twenty years and I’ve been his team leader for the last six. You’ve only known him two months.”

Resentment blazed an instant before Scarface clamped down. “The _cops_ ,” he sneered, glare making it clear he _wanted_ to say, ‘you cops’, “are trying to arrest the Boss again.”

“The warrant’s been re-issued?” Wordy questioned, alarm flaring. No, no, no; no one except _Holleran_ knew Team One had gone undercover with their former, supposedly _dead_ boss. If they ended up on the wrong side of a _warrant_ call, fighting against another SRU team…

Another sneer and a nod. “ _And_ ,” the mobster declared, all but crowing, “the _upstart’s_ people are all ticked off and they’re coming after us.”

Ed considered the intel, cocking his head to the side as he thought. Then he looked back at Scarface, smirking once more. “Bring it on.”

Just like that, Wordy knew two things. Team One – _their_ Team One – was _back_. And they were totally going to _win_.


	7. Never Been A Moment

Sam fidgeted as he sat on a chair in Elias’s penthouse; he wanted to be moving, wanted to be _doing_ something, but after the latest scare Sarge had given them, he and Jules had offered to take the first shift. It wasn’t like anything would be happening until the Boss was back on his feet. Even with a warrant issued for Carl Elias’s arrest, it would take time for ‘Elias’ to be tracked down.

Part of the sniper was relieved – his mind was still his own, the magic hadn’t _altered_ him like what had happened to Wordy. The rest of him was in perfect agreement with his team leader – the ‘team sense’ had jumped _way_ beyond unnerving and straight into _freaky_. It was one thing to have a magical ‘comm’ to his teammates and another entirely to have all of them in his head, every last thought and emotion spilling over into each other.

“Easy, Sam,” Jules murmured, her gaze as affectionate as a hug.

“I know, I know,” Sam whispered back. They _all_ wanted it to stop. They just couldn’t figure out _how_.

A soft groan attracted their attention. Both constables abandoned their chairs and hustled – Jules for Sarge and Sam for the potions stash. If what Ed and Wordy were hearing was right, this whole mess was getting ready to blow sky high. They’d need the Boss as much on his feet as possible.

“Take it easy, Sarge, we got you,” Jules coaxed, her voice audible even from the penthouse’s kitchen.

Sam surveyed the potions he’d brought up from his room and made a face before grabbing the two paste jars. Sarge would need to decide which pain potion he wanted, but Sam could at least take care of his feet and hands. Decision made, he headed back to the penthouse living room and his teammates.

“Ed…Eddie…?”

The sniper ignored the pang in his heart; if the last thing the Boss remembered was collapsing, then he was probably still in that mentality. Ahead, he heard his girlfriend reply, “It’s Jules, Sarge. We can get Ed if you want.”

Sarge coughed and rasped, trying to sit up. Jules stopped him long enough for Sam to deposit his potion jars on a nearby table, then the pair helped him work his way upright. Hazel opened, blurry and confused, but rapidly regained alertness.

“Jules, water,” Sam ordered; she nodded and headed for the kitchen. Crouching, Sam held up his hand and asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Mixed chagrin and amusement lashed the ‘team sense’, then the Boss croaked, “Six.” At the jolts of surprise from everyone except Sam, he added wryly, _‘Two on the hand you just held up and four more on the hand off to my left.’_

The blond snickered, but the Boss wasn’t done.

_‘Sam, what happened?’_

_‘You almost ran out of magic,’_ Jules filled in, coming back with a glass. She cast their Boss a glare when he reached for it, then perched on the couch’s armrest so he could drink while she still held the glass. _‘We don’t know why, but your core…it just stopped.’_

_‘It did?’_ Surprise and confusion rang.

Sam nodded. _‘Yeah, Boss,’_ he confirmed. _‘We were able to get it going enough to get the ‘team sense’ back on, but…’_

It took a few seconds, but then Sarge offered a jerky nod, grimacing as he caught onto what the ‘team sense’ was doing.

_‘Greg, don’t you_ dare _cut it off,’_ Ed growled before the Boss could do just that.

_‘We don’t need you collapsing again,’_ Lou concurred.

_‘Maybe just…tone it down?’_ Spike suggested.

Sam forced his attention away from the ‘team sense’ and grabbed the more pungent of the two paste potions. From what he could tell, it was also the stronger of the potions, to help heal the damage to Sarge’s feet as quickly as possible. Although his boss’s hands were just as bad, being able to _walk_ was so fundamental that Sam had never realized how important it was until his boss… couldn’t…

In the background, the ‘team sense’ flexed; Sam winced as it flared, becoming even more intense, but Sarge hastily backed off before anyone could get overwhelmed by invading thoughts and emotions. There was another fumble at the magic, then the Boss pulled back, as if he was inspecting the problem from another angle. Sam swallowed down his impatience, stuffing it in the same mental box as his embarrassment, and eased Sarge’s loafers and socks off. To his relief, the socks weren’t bloody, a minor blessing, but the blond was fairly sure that was due more to the earlier treatment than any real improvement. The best they could do was hold the line and keep the damage from getting any worse.

Even as he slathered the potion onto the sole of one foot, the ‘team sense’ let out a curious _thrum_ and its magic curled around his shoulders; inside, he felt it tug more firmly at him, almost like an anchor digging harder into the rock that held it steady. Sam froze, struggling not to sway as power rushed through him, dizzying and intoxicating all at once. For a few seconds, he could _see_ the magic as it danced around him. Sarge’s scarlet was fainter than it should have been and Jules seemed to glow as her pink magic illuminated everything he loved about her.

The surge faded, taking the vision with it, but in its wake, the ‘team sense’ was much improved. He was alone in his head again and he could tell the structure of the magic had changed. The emotional and mental shielding was automatic now – rather than a constant struggle to maintain that crucial protection, it was simply _there_. If they wanted to ‘talk’, they could still broadcast, but Sam could tell they could only do it deliberately, instead of thoughts and emotions spilling out at random. A definite improvement over how it _had_ been. And in what was almost an apology or a bonus, although the sniper could still _remember_ being _Imperiused_ and the emotions the curse had induced, he no longer _craved_ those emotions. He sagged, a heavy sigh of relief escaping as that burden vanished.

There was a price, of course. There was _always_ a price. The links were far stronger than they’d been, even just since the morning, as if the finer control over the magic required a deeper connection. But Sam couldn’t find it in himself to mind. Even if he _still_ wanted answers about those magical orders.

_‘Is that better, guys?’_ Sarge asked, his mental voice anxious, but also clearer and stronger than it had been before.

_‘Lots,’_ Sam replied; in the background, his teammates’ relief was just as palpable as his own. The sniper fidgeted again, then ventured, “Hey, Boss…”

Hazel sharpened on him. _‘Yes, Sam?’_

_‘What were those magical orders?’_ he blurted.

Sarge cringed, but nodded acceptance of the question as their teammates silently seconded the query. They wanted to know, too.

_‘I, ah…I’m not completely sure of all of them,’_ the Boss confessed. _‘I was trying my best to not use them during any calls, but…’_

_‘You might’ve slipped,’_ Sam concluded. At the replying grimace, he shrugged. _‘Hey, hot call; we would’ve done it anyway. Don’t sweat a couple mistakes, Boss.’_

_‘Seconded,’_ Jules agreed softly.

_‘Thirded,’_ Spike and Lou chorused, only to declare jinxes on each other an instant later.

_‘Guys,’_ Wordy grumbled, a warning ‘don’t push it’ note in his tone. _‘Let Sarge finish.’_

The pranksters shut up; Wordy hadn’t developed the same bark Ed used, but he’d mastered the art of the cold, biting sarcastic quip, even if Sarge’s return had thawed the team leader’s icy exterior. Though Sam had been getting more than a little uneasy about Wordy’s frigid, caustic attitude, Lou’s intervention had apparently started bringing _their_ Wordy back, even before Sarge finished the job.

_‘Thank you, Wordy,’_ the Boss remarked drily. _‘I might as well get the other…minor infractions out of the way.’_

_‘We’re listening, Boss,’_ Jules coaxed.

Hazel crinkled as Sarge smiled weakly. _‘First, I’m not_ positive _, but I might have used a magical order in Holleran’s office.’_

_‘When we were taking back the barn?’_ Lou asked in surprise.

_‘But you had that collar on,’_ Spike protested.

_‘That’s why I’m not sure,’_ Sarge confessed. _‘It was just an order to stand down, which you guys were doing anyway.’_

Sam held his breath, but he needn’t have worried for his team leader declared, _‘Minor, Sarge. Don’t sweat it.’_

_‘Copy,’_ the Boss agreed quietly. _‘Eddie, I’m not sure if this will be a surprise, but that’s how I got you and that little girl out of the fire.’_

_‘Magical orders?’_ their current Sergeant questioned. _‘I heard you? Through the collar?’_

The Boss squirmed and his voice went soft – hesitant. _‘I had to get in next to you to lever that beam off; I think physical contact bypassed the collar.’_ A pause. _‘_ You _were unconscious, but your subconscious reacted.’_

Sam felt a shiver crawl up his back. To be _that_ closely tied to another human being…it scared him. And it scared the Boss, too, he could tell, but… Ed was still alive. If not for the ‘team sense’, could Sarge have saved him?

Their teammates were just as shaken, but after a minute or two, Ed finally whispered, _‘Thanks, buddy,’_ and that was that. The Sergeant backed up his whisper with a unspoken reminder that they needed to wrap the conversation up, sooner rather than later. They couldn’t _change_ the past and they needed to finish the undercover assignment before they could even _think_ about tackling the ‘team sense’.

Sam drew in a deep breath. _‘So…if that’s the minor stuff…’_

_‘What was the big stuff?’_ Jules finished.

Sarge frowned and brought his hands up, scowl deepening as he counted a few fingers, shook his head, and started over. The couple traded looks as he did it two more times.

_‘Sarge?’_ Sam prompted, somehow communicating his bewilderment to their teammates.

_‘I, ah, I’m not even sure how many times it was,’_ Parker confessed. _‘Four…maybe five…’_ He hesitated, searching for the words. _‘It was always the same set of orders.’_

Sam felt the tension mount, almost screaming around them and in him. _‘What orders?’_

The Boss cringed. _‘One to make you guys go to bed early and another to keep you under until morning.’_

That was totally, completely unaccepta… _‘Wait a sec, that’s_ it! _’_ Sam yelped. _‘That’s_ all _?’_ All that tension, all his half-baked nightmares…and that was _it_? A _sleep_ command? He almost wanted to _cry_ …they’d gone _nuts_ over a _sleep command_?

_‘Sam.’_

The sniper bit off a snigger, stood up, and casually whacked Sarge upside the head. _‘Copy, Boss,’_ he remarked cheerfully to his Sergeant, ignoring the askance glare he got from his other Sergeant.

_‘Greg,’_ Lane growled, not an ounce of give in his voice. _‘Just be grateful_ Sam _did it and not me.’_

_‘Eddie, it’s not_ about _what the command was,’_ Sarge protested. _‘It’s doing it_ at all _. What if something had happened and you guys_ couldn’t _wake up_ because _of_ me _?’_

Sam froze. Sarge was right – the utter ludicracy of the order itself had blinded him to the _real_ issue: free will. The problem _wasn’t_ that Sarge could ‘send them to bed early’, so to speak, it was that _they_ , as full grown adults, couldn’t _refuse_ to go to bed early. He traded a horrified glance with Jules as the truth sank in. They’d _lost_ their free will.

_‘Guys,’_ Ed intervened. _‘We can hash it out_ later _, but we’ve got other problems right now.’_

_‘He’s right,’_ Wordy agreed, unhappy, but willing to trust his best friend’s judgment. _‘Sarge, did Scarface tell you about the warrant?’_

The Boss’s jaw tightened in a frown. _‘If he did, Wordy, it was right before I collapsed,’_ he admitted. _‘Talk to me.’_

_‘Better if you get down here and we do it all at once,’_ Ed opined. _‘Sam?’_

_‘Lemme get this treatment done and Sarge can have a pain potion,’_ Sam replied. _‘We’ll be down right after, Ed.’_

_‘Copy,’_ the Sergeant acknowledged.

Sam met his boss’s eyes as the ‘team sense’ died down to a background rumble. Still there, still active, but no longer intruding or – worse – invasive. “I’m gonna go fast, Boss.”

“Do it,” Sarge agreed, though his face and muscles tensed in anticipation of the pain. Glancing up, he asked, “Jules, could you go get the pain potions Sam brought up?”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Jules replied. As she left, Sam dug into the paste jar, nose wrinkling at the smell. Then he reached down, grabbed his boss’s ankle, and resumed applying the potion.

* * * * *

Elias strode into the planning room, his crew right behind him. Eddie was right, they could deal with the ‘team sense’ and its attendant implications later. For now, they had bigger fish to fry. Starting with Pollux Troy and his late brother’s band of thugs.

“I’ve gotten in touch with my contacts,” the crime lord announced, not even acknowledging Anthony’s anxious once-over. His subordinate straightened, eyes brightening with interest.

“They know about this?” Wordy asked.

“Norm will be having a _word_ with His Worship; he wasn’t notified, but Biondi’s name is on the paperwork for the warrant.”

“The _Mayor’s_ involved?” Anthony blurted.

“Tony.”

“On it, Boss.” Spike set up his phone on the table, activating its anti-surveillance measures.

When he nodded, Elias turned to his second, pulling off his glasses to reveal the solemn police Sergeant beneath. “He knows; his office and the Police Commissioner forced my transfer through, along with this undercover op. They also issued a gag order that cut off any backup I could’ve called in when Holleran was shot.”

The mobster gawped. “So why go to him now?”

“We don’t think he knew,” Lou put in. “We think Pollux Troy weaseled his way into the mayor’s office to set this up.”

“They murdered everyone else involved in the original trial, but they didn’t want to bring the whole SRU down on their heads by going after one of the best cops in the city,” Sam hissed.

“So they cut the Boss off from us,” Jules finished. Sparks flew from her narrowed eyes. “Once they’d isolated him, they tried to get him killed. Castor Troy’s sister Brenda signed the first warrant for Carl Elias’s arrest and gave it to us; she was counting on us blowing his cover.”

“Which I did,” Ed confessed. Ignoring the startled looks, he gazed right at Anthony. “You figured it out when I used his real name.”

Anthony’s eyes darkened. “She figured we’d turn on him once we knew he was a cop.”

“Yes, she did,” Greg confirmed. He quirked a smile. “She underestimated you, Anthony.”

His criminal second shook his head. “Not all of us, Boss.” Misery shone. “You wanna arrest these guys, don’t you?”

The negotiator sighed, but he wasn’t surprised. “That’s all right, Anthony; I have a backup plan.” Another smile twitched at the inquiring looks. “Rumor mill – spread it fast, spread it wide. The cops are _claiming_ that I’m one of them, but everyone on _our_ side knows how much I hate cops.”

“Risky, Boss,” Jules murmured.

“No choice, Natasha,” Greg replied. “Any other plan and our opponents will spring the intel right in the middle of the fight.”

“You’re thinking a honeypot trap, Boss?” Wordy questioned, carefully couching his suggestion in the question.

“Exactly, Steve,” Parker confirmed, leaning forward to point at the map. “Right _there_.”

His teammates and Anthony eyed the location. Then Spike remarked, “We can take a walk.” He waited for them to glance at him incredulously, then quipped, “Just as long as nobody steals our ship.”

“Bloody pirates,” Lou immediately added.

* * * * *

Ed frowned to himself as he and Wordy planned out the trap, Scarface providing most of the intel on the location of their honeypot. The trap would work perfectly, so long as the subjects didn’t figure out what was going on until they were inside. Therein lay the problem. Aside from Team One and Greg, all of those involved were _criminals_. The idea of going less-lethal was foreign to them and they’d cotton onto the cops in their midst in about ten seconds if the SRU officers _didn’t_ go lethal.

Although every member of Team One _had_ killed – Ed spared a half a second to curse Moffet out for the Embassy attack – and they went into every hot call _knowing_ that going lethal, while a last resort, _was_ on the table, none of them had the stomach for wholesale slaughter. Especially Greg; Ed still had no idea how Greg hadn’t cracked in two and ended up drinking again, even _with_ Commander Holleran’s support. Unless Sam was right and Greg had managed to largely avoid the constant power struggles inherent to Toronto’s underworld.

Trouble was, the honeypot trap they were whipping up essentially amounted to wholesale slaughter. And this time, they weren’t up against Neo Death Eaters and vampires. But to squirk at the killing was to risk their own lives, not a good thing with Pollux Troy making his move. The tactician had spent almost the entire planning session trying to think of a way around killing their opponents, only to keep running smack dab into the reminder that holding back would get _them_ killed.

Wordy wasn’t frowning, but the troubled look on his face and the glimmer of unhappiness in the depths of gray eyes told Ed that his friend saw the problem just as clearly as he did. He kept hoping Wordy would think of something, but no light bulb went off and the ‘team sense’ was almost eerily silent. Funny how quickly he’d gotten used to it being on and active again. Even the telepathy no longer sent shudders of horror up his spine. Ironically, it was the _silence_ of being alone in his own head that now felt…eerie.

“Anthony, we’ll need the Ra-Kacharz on hand as well,” Greg inserted smoothly.

The three men jerked around in surprise; none of them had heard the door open as the Boss returned from his own preparations for the long night ahead. Ed noted his friend’s grim expression and the matching grimness in their two bomb techs. “Boss?”

He and Wordy edged aside as Greg joined them. “Tony.”

“On it,” Spike replied, phone already out. He tapped at it, then placed it on the table. “We’re good, Boss.”

Parker gathered himself. “I got a second call from Holleran,” he reported, pinning all of them, even Scarface, with his eyes. “My new _handler_ and Romulus have been making themselves busy.” Hazel narrowed, hardening towards topaz. “It _seems_ that the SRU has been home to a rising mob boss.”

Ed snorted. “What, in between hot calls, you run a criminal enterprise?”

Wordy snickered, but Greg didn’t. Very drily, he replied, “Well, what’s more plausible, Scott? A cop going bad or a criminal with a lifetime sentence running his organization from behind bars?”

The Sergeant’s jaw dropped open. “They think _you’re_ running Castor Troy’s gang?”

“More like both gangs are his and he broke Castor Troy outta prison so he could frame him for killing two cops, a judge, and a bunch of kids,” Lou countered.

“And then, when he’d gotten all he wanted from Castor, he killed both Castor and his sister to cover up which cop had gone bad,” Spike finished.

The story was so ridiculous that Ed had a nasty feeling it would _work_. Wordy coughed. “What about the original crime spree? That started before the Boss even went to the Academy.”

“Archer,” Greg filled in quietly. “He’s being blamed as the original mob boss and I took over after he retired.” A sardonic smirk twisted Parker’s mouth. “Supposedly, we both framed Castor Troy and his siblings have spent their lives trying to prove his innocence and stop us.”

“Don’t tell me the mayor is _buying_ it,” Wordy exclaimed. “He _knows_ you!”

“No, he doesn’t, Steve,” Ed disagreed. “Yeah, we were at his Halloween party two years running and, yeah, we stopped Loki, but he really doesn’t know us from a hole in the wall.” He sighed, casting a glance at his boss. “Lemme guess, they’re also tacking on that you haven’t contacted your IS handler, right?”

A grimace and a nod. “Holleran and Toth are trying to set him straight, but if we go through with this honeypot trap, it’s not just _me_ that will get tarred.”

“We will, too,” Wordy whispered. “Heck of a revenge, Boss. Win the battle, lose the war.”

Scarface growled. “Can’t this Archer guy do anything?”

One eyebrow rose. “Anthony, I’m the only one _left_ ,” Greg replied. “Archer and his family are dead; Castor mailed his _head_ to Homicide, even paid exact postage. The prosecutor died of a heart attack years ago; the judge and his family were murdered not long after I went undercover.” A grim pause. “I wasn’t a key witness at the trial, but _I’m_ the one who arrested him. _I’m_ the one who upset the apple cart and tipped the row of dominos that ended with Castor’s imprisonment.” The Sergeant grimaced. “And _I’m_ the one who didn’t die, not back then and not now, either.”

“So if they can’t kill you, they’re gonna ruin you instead,” Ed summed up, earning a silent nod. The sniper flicked a glance at Scarface. “Any ideas? Besides confessing to the whole gang that the rumor going around is true, so please help us with about two dozen citizen’s arrests?”

The door opened, bringing the group around, but it was just Sam and Jules. Jules shut the door behind her and straightened to attention. “Neal’s onboard and he’s bringing Merric and Seaver along, too.”

Ed’s eyes widened when Greg smirked. “Boss?”

Parker waved his last two constables forward, then turned back to the map and the building blueprints on top. “Anthony, we’re going to change this up a bit.” Pointing to the main area, he asked, “What do we have planned for the bottom floor?”

“Back up guys behind the counter,” Wordy reported at once. “It’s not the best spot, so they’ll only jump in if they need to.”

Greg tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Good idea, but not anymore.” He sketched out the counter’s location. “Neal, Merric, and Seaver will get in there; Rhodey, Tony, I want the two of you with them as well.”

“Got it, Boss,” Lou replied. “What’s our plan?”

The Boss smirked. “Lower the starboard anchor.”

Ed didn’t get the reference, but judging by the instant _glee_ on their resident pranksters – they _did_.

* * * * *

“Boss, you really think this is gonna work?”

Elias turned to meet his onetime team leader and now fellow Sergeant’s gaze. “Scott, you know and I know that if Pollux Troy can convince the Mayor that I’m dirty, then all of this is for nothing and you guys will go down with me.”

Ed swallowed hard at the declaration.

The undercover officer met his friend’s eyes. “They know me, Scott. They know my record and I have little doubt that they’ve been watching me for years.”

Alarm flared. “Then…the kids?”

“Are safe,” Elias replied, just as soft. “Brenda didn’t have access to my file until after Holleran altered it; Pollux wouldn’t have had access either, even with his job in the mayor’s office.”

Ed nodded thoughtfully. “He could access your work history, but not your personal history.” The sniper frowned. “What about the moles Castor Troy had?”

“Not even _they_ could get to my file, not without being in the SRU,” Elias explained. “No, Scott, Castor would’ve needed a mole _inside_ the barn to get at my personal history. And it would’ve had to be Holleran or one of the dispatchers.”

Lane shifted back on his heels, thinking hard. “Except for Holleran, they’re all too young,” he observed.

“Not necessarily,” Elias countered unhappily. “Some of the names I gave to Holleran; they’re younger than either one of us, so they had to be new recruits. But I eyeballed the SRU first; I wasn’t about to take the chance that we missed someone. Not after Cohn.”

The other Sergeant grimaced at the reminder of the Team Four bomb tech who’d sold them out to Moffet, understanding his boss’s argument perfectly well. Elias hadn’t been about to take the chance and _assume_ that the SRU was clean with no… _rat_ infestations. When it came to protecting his kids, Elias would do anything and everything that he had to. “What about Dean? You sued to see him, so that’s not just in your personal file.”

The undercover officer smiled. Sadly, but still, he smiled. “You have a point, Scott, but think about it. Dean may still have my last name, but Catherine remarried. _She_ doesn’t have my last name any more. And the paperwork for my lawsuit was sent to her lawyer, not her address.”

Partway through his explanation, Eddie started nodding. “They’d have to search the whole city to find him.” Not to mention, Parker wasn’t exactly an uncommon last name.

“And given the estrangement, Castor may have thought it wasn’t worth it,” Elias tacked on. “The fact that I had to _sue_ to see him…they might’ve decided that he hates me anyway, so why bother?” Sorrowful, he let the statement hang before returning to his main point. “Scott, I’ve had this target on my back since the day I arrested him and I’ve no doubt that Pollux would love to take me down and ruin my reputation, especially if it means the city gets fooled into thinking Castor was the good guy all along.”

“We won’t let that happen,” Ed vowed.

“To stop it at this point, we need to arrest both of them,” Elias countered. “I screwed up; I should’ve contacted my ‘handler’ and at least given him some token information, but I didn’t. That means he didn’t have to lie when he told the mayor I hadn’t gotten in touch at all.”

“You didn’t know.”

The negotiator shook his head firmly. “I know better, Scott. Don’t downplay it; my decision gave them this exact opportunity and now we’re scrambling to keep up.” Hazel darkened. “The only good thing is that we won’t have to go looking for Pollux.”

“What? Why?”

“He’ll be there tonight,” Elias explained simply.

“Why would he do that?” Ed wondered aloud.

For a very long moment, the crime lord didn’t reply, then he sighed and turned away, one hand reaching out to rest against the wall. Without speaking, he tapped the ‘team sense’, though he kept it strictly between himself and his best friend. _‘It’s the same reason Brenda came to the factory with Castor that day, Eddie. They wanted to gloat and rub my nose in how stupid I am.’_ He flicked a glance back. _‘They know my record, Ed, but they still see me as that idiotic rookie cop who bucked a perfectly good status quo and arrested the city’s top crime lord. And to top it off, I was too stubborn to end up dead, like everyone else from the trial.’_

“Boss…”

“They’ll be there, Scott,” Elias repeated. “If only because Pollux won’t be able to let go of the fact that I killed his family.” Internally, he shuddered, but the truth was, that was _exactly_ what he’d done. And he would spend the rest of his life regretting that decision – even though he couldn’t have made any other.

* * * * *

The plan was in place, right along with all of Elias’s best men. The bait had been floated and the crime lord was certain it had been taken. It remained to be seen as to whether they could reel in the catch, but there was one last crucial precaution he needed to take. Anthony had already passed the word that the enemy was to be taken alive, but Elias had not survived for two months deep undercover without being able to read the restless and rebellious mood around him.

Grim, he keyed the PA system. “Attention all hands.” He waited a few seconds, listening hard as the sounds of chatter throughout the building died down. “I understand many of you are _unhappy_ with the idea of doing the _cops’_ dirty work for them and believe me, I share in your displeasure. I much prefer the idea of introducing every last _one_ of these _upstart_ thugs to Davy Jones’ Locker!”

Again, he stopped, a faint smile appearing at the approving roar echoing through the corridors. “Just one problem,” he growled, “The _upstart’s_ little brother is trying to frame _us_ for his crimes.” Over the chorus of boos, Elias snarled, “ _No one_ is going to call _me_ or any of _mine_ a _baby killer_!” The boos cut off instantly and the mob boss heard more than one low, vile oath.

“So here’s what we going to do, men. We’re going to take every last _one_ of these upstarts _alive_ and we’re going to hand them over to a group of cops who _know_ which side they’re on. They won’t be able to pin _their_ crimes on us when we’re through with ‘em.” He stopped, gathering his words; he was close, he could _feel_ it. “I may hate cops,” Elias hissed, “But if I have to choose between _cops_ and _baby killers_ …”

Reluctant approval rumbled through the building. Not everyone would obey; he _knew_ that. Nor would they necessarily have the luxury of taking the enemy alive. Even so, his speech had accomplished two goals. His men would not turn on him – or, far more importantly, his crew – for being ‘weak’ or ‘spineless’ and the casualties would be far less than they could have been. Elias closed his eyes, _knowing_ that he would live the rest of his life with however many deaths there were, but at least he’d _tried_.

Turning back to the PA, the crime lord adopted a pitiless tone. “All right, all hands on deck! Take your positions and get ready to repel all boarders. We’re going to show these _upstarts_ why you don’t _mess_ with _our_ ship! And always remember: Keep to the Code.”

“Take all you can!” Anthony roared.

“Give nothing back,” Elias finished.

_‘Really, Boss? The_ Pirate’s _Code?’_ Spike asked, amusement clear.

_‘I told them I didn’t care if Walt Disney came up with it first; I was stealing it and if they didn’t like it, I’d make sure they fell behind.’_

Lou whistled low and filled in the blanks. _‘Any man that falls behind gets left behind,’_ he explained. _‘How’d you make that work with the evacuations?’_ the less-lethal specialist questioned.

_‘For evacuations, the Code is amended. The only man considered to have fallen behind is a dead man,’_ Elias replied. _‘Never give the enemy an edge – and I consider_ people _to be an edge.’_

_‘So, basically, you’re Jack Sparrow,’_ Wordy quipped. _‘And the Code is more like guidelines.’_

_‘Something like that,’_ the undercover Sergeant agreed, amusement glittering. _‘You and Eddie can fight over who gets to be Turner and who gets to be Gibbs.’_

_‘None of the above; we don’t mutiny,’_ Wordy instantly retorted. _‘We might’ve walked away once, Sarge, but we’re_ never _doing that again.’_

_‘Never is a long time, Wordy,’_ Elias chided.

_‘Greg.’_ Ed’s voice rang with rock-solid conviction. _‘Word’s right. We’re with you, Boss.’_

Silence rang, both around the mob boss and in the stillness between the friends. Elias considered for several long moments, then reached up and took his glasses off, quietly tucking them away in his sports jacket. Reaching farther inside, he pulled something out, smiling at the glitter of silver and gold on it. Then he clipped his new Auror badge to his belt and looked up to meet Eddie’s eyes.

_‘All right, Team One,’_ he acknowledged. _‘Let’s keep the peace.’_

* * * * *

The fight started with a bang, as every door to the hotel lobby was forced open at the same time and Castor Troy’s remaining men flooded in, already shooting. Greg, perched with his crew on the fifth floor balcony, allowed a low whistle. The enemy had learned from their last attack on his organization – they were aiming high, for the second and third floor balconies. Pity for them he’d positioned his men even higher; they returned fire, hitting far more of their targets than the enemy.

Drawing in breath, he gripped his magic, determinedly powering through his own frailty. For one last second, the Sergeant weighed his tack, then yelled, “Lower the starboard anchor!”

The absurdity caused both sides to pull back, if only for a breath. Naturally, that was when a host of smoke grenades and flash bangs landed in the middle of the enemy. Yells of protest rose as they went off. As the smoke hissed, hiding the enemy from sight, the watchers heard more booms, coupled with yelps, thuds, and even more than a few whimpers. The trap didn’t take down the entire invading force, but by the time the smoke cleared, the enemy was on the defensive and fighting to hold what little ground they’d taken.

“Take them down!” Greg roared.

Below him, Anthony led the charge, cutting the enemy off before they could run; curiously, they didn’t seem to realize they _could_ have run right back out the doors they’d come in. And though they kept firing, their aim was so awful that only three of the defenders were even hit. In short order, the invading force was disarmed and the fight was over, almost as soon as it had begun.

_‘Now_ that’s _what I call_ cheating _, Boss,’_ Wordy observed cheerfully.

_‘What can I say, Wordy, I’m an honest man.’_

Spike and Lou sniggered. _‘_ That’s _for sure,’_ Lou concurred. _‘A dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly. It’s the honest ones you want to watch out for.’_

_‘Because you can never predict when they’re going to do something incredibly…_ stupid _,’_ Spike finished before asking, _‘So how many times_ have _you watched that movie, Sarge?’_

_‘Enough times to know that this is when the other shoe drops,’_ Parker replied in a dry tone.

Sure enough, one of their new captives yelled, “Parker! I know you’re here!”

_‘Is that…?’_

_‘It is,’_ Greg confirmed. _‘I believe that means you owe me ten bucks, Sergeant Lane.’_ Their teammates chortled, but the undercover officer didn’t smile. _‘Spike, Lou, stay out of sight and keep our Auror backup down, too.’_

_‘Copy,’_ Lou acknowledged.

Greg stalked down the stairs towards the lobby, but didn’t reach for his glasses. He wasn’t going to give Pollux Troy the satisfaction. Not anymore. The odds of anyone other than Anthony understanding the lack of glasses was nil anyway. He wasn’t going to hide what he was any more. Greg Parker was a _cop_ and proud of it. For his family’s sake, he’d crafted the persona of Carl Elias, ruthless Italian mob boss, but with Pollux in custody, he didn’t need to hide any more. And he wouldn’t.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he cast the brunet a smirk and asked, “Anyone here ever hear of a guy named Parker?”

Pollux snarled and tried to launch forward, only to be grabbed by Anthony. “I ain’t never heard of anyone like that, Boss,” his criminal second replied, smirking right back at Parker.

The Sergeant nodded thoughtfully, scanning the downed thugs. Not bad, not bad at all; the three Junior Aurors had done an excellent job of slipping Stunners through the smoke grenades and flash bangs. He had little doubt that they’d also snuck in a few other spells, to skew the attackers’ aim and prevent them from escaping. While the most astute would – rightly – wonder how they’d been able to win so easily, Greg had known a protracted battle would have numerous causalities and reflect poorly on the end of his undercover assignment.

“You haven’t won _yet_ , _Sergeant Parker_ ,” Pollux hissed, pitching his voice to carry around the room.

Amusement shone. “You’re accusing _me_ of being a cop?” Greg inquired, tone mild. Around him, Elias’s men chuckled darkly.

“You… You _are_ a cop,” Pollux blurted, taken aback by the laughter. “You’ve been a _cop_ for over _twenty years!_ You’re in the Strategic Response Unit!” When the dark chuckles only grew more knowing, he glared at Greg’s teammates and spat, “So are Lane, Wordsworth, Callaghan, and Braddock! And your other two, Young and Scarlatti!”

Greg smiled and shifted back, crossing his arms. “Those are some very interesting accusations, don’t you think, Anthony?”

“Sure are, Boss,” Anthony concurred.

“Pity it’s his word against mine.”

“Sure is,” his criminal second agreed.

The Sergeant’s smile broadened at the fury on Pollux’s face. “I’m sure you can understand why my men are… _reluctant_ …to believe you, Mr. Troy.” The smile dropped away and hazel turned to topaz. “Particularly given your brother’s _propensity_ to murder entire families.”

Pollux blanched and it was only Greg’s upraised hand that halted his seething chiefs’ instant bristle and move forward. “Let’s not give him the satisfaction, gentlemen.” Indicating Biondi – who’d wisely kept his mouth shut – Greg flicked a glance at Anthony. “Turn these two over to Reese, Anthony. Then make arrangements for the _rest_ of these _thugs_ to end up in lockup. I want them out of my headquarters by morning.”

“You got it, Boss.”

It was only after Anthony dragged the pair away that Greg realized. Too easy; it had all been _far_ too easy. There hadn’t been even a _syllable_ of protest from ‘his men’ and not so much a grumble about him not attacking Pollux on the spot over the cop accusation. Dread stirred and he turned to glance at Elias’s other chiefs. But though Bennet gave him a knowing smile, none of the chiefs said anything. Instead, they dispersed to start cleaning up the battle’s aftermath.

_‘Eddie…why do I suddenly have the feeling I’m being humored?’_

His fellow Sergeant shrugged. _‘Darned if I know, Boss.’_


	8. We All Have A Part

Funny. He’d promised himself two months ago that he’d never even _look_ at another Coke again, much less drink it, and yet, here he was, open Coke bottle in hand, with another six lined up on the coffee table in front of him. The cold glass stung Greg’s raw flesh and his fingers were having trouble curling completely around the bottle neck, but he hadn’t dropped it yet. Nor would he; the undercover officer polished off the bottle and set it down, offering one last silent tribute to the first of the night’s fatalities.

Seven dead, all on the late Castor Troy’s side. It didn’t matter, though; they’d been Toronto citizens and it had been his job to keep them alive. Instead, he’d given the orders that led directly to their deaths. Parker knew he couldn’t have made any other choices; he’d picked the best of a bad lot and even skirted the Official Secrets Act in an attempt to keep the fatalities down. It didn’t change the guilt that lay heavy in his stomach. The sorrow for lives ended and a silent wish that it could have been _different_.

Sighing, Greg reached out, picking the next bottle up. One hand found the bottle opener and he slid the tool under the metal cap, wincing internally at the tiny _hiss_ of escaping carbonation. He knew why he’d picked the Coke; it was another way to remind himself of how he’d betrayed his teammates’ trust in him. Another way to punish himself for it. By all rights, they never should’ve forgiven him and offered him another chance. But they _had_ ; even four months of lies, undercover work, and being _dead_ hadn’t broken their trust in him. His magic had done that to them. Tainted or no, it had _still_ been _his_ magic and _they_ were the ones living with the consequences.

The Sergeant swallowed down another gulp and mentally saluted the second of the night’s – or was it morning now? – casualties. Hazel darkened, fresh memory rising. The ‘team sense’, linking himself and his teammates together so _completely_ he was shocked he hadn’t noticed until Sam said something. Memories, emotions, thoughts, all mixed together and yet, Greg had known _exactly_ who belonged to each one. Frantic, he’d thrust his will at it, demanding it _stop_ , but instead, it had tried to get stronger – _worse_. At least his automatic withdrawal had also ‘pulled’ the ‘team sense’ back.

Gryphon instinct, practically ingrained in his psyche after two months, had saved him. Saved _them_. An instinctive cry for help, for someone to _fix_ what had gone wrong. Pleading for his magic to set things _right_. Greg still wasn’t sure if it had been his magic or… _Him_. All he knew was that the links had an even tighter grip on them now, but…but it was better. More stable, more reliable. He had the ‘team sense’ on and yet…he was alone in his head. Which was good. Even if his head ached just as much as his hands and his magical core was beating a steady throb in his chest. Everything hurt, but he had no intention of going to bed. Why invite a sleepless night and nightmares if he _did_ fall asleep.

“Got another one of those bottles lurking around here?”

Parker glanced up from his drink – almost empty. “ ‘Fridge,” he replied. He watched Ed head for the kitchen and come back with a bottle, then mutely offered his bottle opener. The other man opened the bottle, then sipped at it as he set the bottle opener down on the table.

“At least you got the good stuff,” Ed remarked at last.

Greg twitched a slight smile and didn’t reply as he reclaimed the bottle opener for bottle number three.

“I don’t suppose telling you they made their choices will do any good?”

“No.”

Eddie sighed. “And I don’t suppose telling you that _we_ made _our_ choices will do any good, either?”

Parker shook his head. “Trust. Too much.”

His fellow Sergeant huffed, casting him an annoyed, but truly affectionate look. “Your guilt complex is amazing, you know that, right?”

The sarcasm rang, but Parker merely smiled sadly and swallowed down the last of bottle number two. Setting down the empty bottle, Greg picked up the third and grabbed the bottle opener. His fingers were stiff and not responding all that well, but he managed to open the bottle. Once open, he sipped at the dark liquid. _‘I know it could have been a whole lot worse, Eddie, but a life is a life.’_

Ed set down his own Coke bottle with a sigh, understanding filtering in. “Never gets easier,” he agreed.

Parker nodded.

For several minutes, the two men sat in silence, then Ed leaned forward. “Greg, you did the best you could. You have _nothing_ to feel guilty for.”

Silence draped the room for another minute before Greg tilted his head in acknowledgement if not acceptance. “Hear…you.” With his free hand, he pointed to his head. “Know… _here_.” Moving his hand down, he gestured to his chest. “Not… _here_.”

Ed accepted that with a quick nod of his own. When Greg finished his third bottle, he reached across the table for the fourth bottle and the bottle opener. “I’ve got it, Boss.”

“Thanks… Eddie.”

Lane hissed under his breath as he wrestled with the cap and the bottle resisted his efforts. “Darn it; it’s stuck.”

Watching the struggle, Greg remarked, _‘I have another bottle opener in the kitchen.’_

“Yeah…we might need it; sorry, Boss.” Ed pushed himself up and handed the bottle opener back.

_‘Not your fault.’_ Greg picked up a different bottle and popped it open as his friend headed for the kitchen with the recalcitrant Coke bottle. A few minutes and much low grumbling later, Ed came back with the open bottle, setting it down for when Parker finished his current bottle.

The Sergeant nursed his drink for some time before setting it down with a quiet sigh. He started to reach for the next bottle when Ed asked, “Need the bathroom?”

Greg was about to refuse, but stopped, considering the row of empty Coke bottles. He huffed a sigh, then nodded and rose. Once he came back, he settled into his chair, picked up the open bottle, and inspected it, just to make sure it was still full.

He saw Ed smirk out of the corner of his eye, but his fellow Sergeant didn’t remark on his wary eyeball of the Coke. Instead, he held out a fresh bottle of Coke and said, “For all the ones we couldn’t save.”

With a faint smile, Greg clinked his bottle with Ed’s and threw it back, draining the contents in several swift gulps. Parker allowed a mental chuckle when Eddie couldn’t guzzle his whole bottle in one go. Nice to know all those weeks of pretending to get drunk had paid off. In a certain manner of speaking at any rate.

He set the empty bottle down and started to reach for the next one when an enormous yawn escaped. His magic tingled in his chest for an instant, then his eyelids slid closed. He was asleep before his body could even slump.

* * * * *

Wordy caught Greg before he could fall on the coffee table, much to Ed’s relief. “That was fast,” the team leader remarked.

“Yeah,” Ed breathed. One shoulder lifted. “I think he was halfway there anyway, Steve; he didn’t say anything about me using his real name.”

The brunet nodded, easing the slumbering man back in his chair. “Glad it worked,” he murmured.

His Sergeant smirked. “We can say it worked if he doesn’t find another crate of Coke to drink his way through once he wakes up.”

Wordy sighed acknowledgement. “What now?”

“Let’s get him to bed; Neal wants to take a look at him.”

“Got it,” the big constable agreed.

Ed set his empty bottle down on the coffee table, then moved around the table. The two men lifted the sleeping Sergeant out of his chair, hefting him as much off the ground as they could while they maneuvered him away from the living room and down a short hallway to his bedroom. Inside the room, they let Greg down on the bed and Ed eased his friend’s shoes and socks off while Wordy went for Neal.

By the time Wordy came back with the young Auror, Ed had also managed to get the sleeping man out of his sports jacket and had started working on the button-down shirt. He glanced up as Wordy joined him, keeping Parker upright while Ed got the last of the buttons undone and worked his boss out of the sleeves. By mutual consent, they left the pants alone, although Ed took his turn supporting the sick man so Wordy could retrieve the sweats they’d stashed in ‘Elias’s’ room.

“Neal, could you?” Wordy asked, pulling the sweatpants partially out of the bag and snagging the sweatshirt to take back to the bed.

“Sure thing,” the young wizard agreed. Politely, he waited for them to finish before gesturing with his wand and performing a quick Switching Spell. That done, he moved to the bed, frowning as he examined Greg’s hands and feet.

Watching over the Auror’s shoulder, Ed tried not to sigh. Although they’d religiously kept up with the potion treatments, undercover work was _not_ conducive to healing. The Sergeant had very little doubt that Greg had done more damage to himself, even aside from his collapse, and yet, he’d never breathed a word of complaint. Nor would he ever; Greg had gotten _used_ to ignoring his pain and pushing right on through. They’d have to watch him, even after he healed up, because habits were hard to break and his best friend had a _habit_ of dismissing any and all personal consequences when he felt it necessary. Although he’d had it _before_ his undercover stint, Ed had a feeling it had gotten much worse.

Neal applied a fresh coating of potion to Greg’s injured limbs before casting a diagnostic. Immediately, the wizard went pale. Whipping around, he hissed, “His core’s had a partial shutdown in the last day.”

_Partial?_ Ed wondered.

“A partial shutdown?” Wordy asked.

A vicious nod set Neal’s hanging fringe to bouncing. “Has to be; if it had shut down altogether, he’d be dead by now.”

Lane swallowed hard at the inadvertent confirmation of just how _dire_ the stakes had been. If Scarface hadn’t come for him, if his teammates hadn’t obeyed his demand that they _fix_ what they’d broken… He cut the thoughts off, focusing back on the young wizard. “Can you handle it?”

Even before he finished, Neal was shaking his head. “No way. Even most Healers wouldn’t be able to handle something like this, Aur…”

“ _Scott_ ,” Ed snarled, cutting the wizard off. “And keep your voice down.”

Neal jerked back, confused for an instant before understanding filtered into green eyes. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. Switching back to his original point, the young man leaned forward. “He _needs_ a hospital.”

“Scott, we disappear and Elias’s guys will go bonkers,” Wordy interjected.

Ed nodded, thinking as hard and as rapidly as his exhausted mind would allow. “Neal. Can your Dad handle this?”

The Auror bit his lip, but after a few seconds of consideration, he jerked his chin in confirmation. “I…I can call him,” Neal offered. “He really likes the phone I got for him and Susan even introduced him to her brother, so he knows Healers are called doctors in your world.” The brunet fidgeted. “But, um, he’s probably gonna want to Portkey, ah, um…”

“Elias,” Ed filled in tiredly. Dang and blast. “He goes, we go, but Steve’s right. We sneak out and Elias’s people will tear the city apart lookin’ for him.” The tactician’s brain nudged an idea at him, one that was either crazy or brilliant. “Steve, can you go get Scarface? And get everyone up; I’m not betting against Neal on this one.”

“You got it, Scott,” Wordy agreed.

* * * * *

To Scarface’s credit, he heard Ed and Neal out before speaking. Glancing down at the sleeping man, the mobster grimaced. “I thought you said he recovered.”

Ed ignored the accusing tone. “I said he was stable,” the Sergeant replied evenly. “And he’s still stable, but he needs more than what we can do for him here.” When Scarface kept staring at the man on the bed, the sniper softened his tone. “You know, you’re not the only one who didn’t get to say good-bye before.”

Scarface whipped up and around, snarling.

“No,” Ed hissed, bristling right back. “You know what the last thing I said to him for two _months_ was? I was bawling him out for _drinking_.” He stopped for a breath. “Next day… The next day was the day I found out it was all a _lie_. And then…” Again, he stopped, fists clenching. “Then we saw the fire on TV.” The merest, barest whisper and it was Ed’s turn to turn away. “He spent the last two months tryin’ to get home, Anthony.”

The mobster’s stare burned into his back, unspoken demand ringing.

Shifting back, Ed forced himself to meet that burning fury. “I’ll make sure he calls you. Lets you know how he’s doing. But we gotta go or he’ll pay the price.” Blue eyes slid closed in grief, both old and new. “He’s already paid enough, Anthony.”

It took another minute, but the dark-haired man dropped his gaze and looked back at Greg. “Fine. Go; I’ll take care of everything else. Where you want those cars?”

“I have an address,” Neal replied. Tilting his head in a formal half-bow, the pureblood added, “I thank you for your forbearance and you have my word of honor that no harm shall come to Elias.”

Scarface snorted disdain and stepped close to the bed, dropping his hand down onto Greg’s shoulder. He squeezed once, then turned back to Ed. Without speaking, Ed held out the three sets of keys for the SUVs. “Lock them in,” he ordered. “Steve and Thor have another set.”

“Whatever. I ain’t doin’ this for _you_ ,” Scarface snapped, leaning into Ed’s space. “I’m doin’ it for _him_.”

The Sergeant never flinched as he returned the glare and nodded once in acknowledgement.

* * * * *

Healer Baird Queenscove wasted no time in arranging a Portkey to his family home after his own diagnostic on the sleeping officer. The rest of Team One wasn’t best pleased – they were tired, cranky, and sleep-deprived after being up most of the night – but they gamely collected their belongings and clung to the Portkey that whirled them into a private, lavish medical suite.

The Healer levitated Parker into a nearby bed; although it was a hospital bed, it was the nicest hospital bed Ed had ever seen. The sheets looked soft to the touch and expensive, and the way they clung to the mattress told the sniper that the mattress was plush, padded, and probably nicer than the mattress he and Sophie had in their house. The bed railings were metal with sleek rubber padding around the bars; they wouldn’t cause a jolt of cold to any patients who rolled in their sleep.

“Kadie,” Queenscove called.

A house-elf clad in a green and bronze toga appeared, bat-like ears already perking up. “Master be calling Kadie?”

Gazing at the elf with a smile, the elder man replied, “Yes, Kadie. Please arrange rooms for all of these Aurors here in this wing. For tonight, merely ensure the beds are prepared, then return.”

Kadie bowed and _popped_ away; Ed blinked in surprise. Most of the house-elves he’d met would’ve protested at ‘only’ preparing the beds for newly arrived guests.

Seeing his expression, the Healer smiled. “Kadie has been with me most of my life, Sergeant Lane, and she’s been a great asset in my career. She understands when she can primp and polish for guests and when such effort is wasted on the truly exhausted who only wish for a bed.”

That was a good point; the Sergeant glanced at his constables, a trifle guilty over dragging _them_ out of bed even as he knew there’d been no choice. None of them noticed or protested, re-affirming to the sniper that his men were so tired they could hardly see straight.

Kadie _popped_ back into the room before he could speak, piping, “Master’s guests be following Kadie.”

Team One shuffled after the elf, though Wordy paused when their Sergeant didn’t move. He glanced back, gaze bleary, but still partially alert. “Ed?”

“I don’t want him to wake up alone,” Ed explained simply.

It took several seconds for Wordy to consider that, then he nodded and shuffled after their teammates without further protest.

“I will arrange for Kadie to bring in another bed, Sergeant Lane,” Queenscove murmured.

The bald man rubbed his head, exhaustion tugging at him. “Thanks.”

Ed watched as the Healer turned to his patient, flicking his wand in the familiar movements of a diagnostic. Another gesture summoned parchment and quill, which assembled themselves into a dictation setup. Lane was too tired to really focus on Queenscove’s words, merely watching Greg sleep as the Healer’s magic wove patterns in the air around him.

He did jolt when Queenscove made a muted, choked-off exclamation. “What? What’s wrong?”

At first, the Healer did not answer; instead, he recast his spell, studying the results with laser intensity. Then he turned, studying Ed with that same intensity. “May I do a diagnostic on your core, Sergeant Lane?”

Ed’s mouth went dry. It was a matter of medical record that he _didn’t_ have a magical core, yet Queenscove had just _specifically_ referenced his core. He could play dumb or he could cop to what the Healer had already deduced. Blue trailed to Greg and he shuddered. Lies and secrets had brought them to this point and he _refused_ to continue that cycle. “Sure thing, doc.”

The other man offered a short bow before his wand flicked sharply at Ed. The Sergeant flinched, but held his position as an image of his newly minted magical core materialized between himself and the Healer. Queenscove guided the diagnostic over to the still hovering diagnostic for Greg’s core and lined them up, nodding to himself.

“Sergeant Lane. Are you aware there is a magical link between yourself and Sergeant Parker?”

“Yes,” Ed confirmed. No point in denying that either, especially since the Healer had already figured it out.

Queenscove hummed to himself. “I presume the other links are to your fellow Aurors?”

“Why?”

The Healer turned with a frown, only to see Ed’s wary, tense expression. They faced off for several seconds, then the older man turned farther, summoning a vial of light blue potion. “Nealan is incorrect, isn’t he, Sergeant Lane. Sergeant Parker’s core did not suffer a _partial_ shutdown, it suffered a _full_ shutdown.”

Ed swallowed, but didn’t deny the assertion.

“You and whoever else is tied to Parker managed to use your own magic to restart the core,” the Healer continued, “However, the core remains at a critically low level of magic. Given its current physical condition, it cannot recover on its own.”

“You need to heal it,” Ed filled in.

“Not exactly,” Queenscove admitted. He held up the potion he’d summoned. “This potion will place Sergeant Parker into a state similar to Draught of the Living Death and stimulate his core, allowing it to recover an acceptable level of magic within a day or so.”

Ed hiked a brow, scenting a bombshell.

The Healer smiled sadly. “However, it does so by acting upon the _core_ itself, something that relatively few potions do. Most potions act upon the body, only incidentally interacting with a patient’s magical core.” He gestured with the vial. “Since this potion acts directly on the core, the magic will go through Sergeant Parker’s links and cause an identical effect on anyone connected to him.”

Oh. _Oh._ Ed took an involuntary step back, sniper breathing kicking in as a large part of his brain started to panic. “So… Me and everyone else _connected_ to him, we’re gonna be down for that same day?”

“Precisely.”

“And, um, he really needs that potion?” Ed questioned.

Queenscove inclined his head.

The Sergeant considered his options – as well as the fact that Queenscove had _already_ figured out the truth. Finally, he closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, it’s us,” he admitted.

“Thank you, Sergeant Lane,” the Healer murmured. “I take it you still wish to stay here?”

For a moment, Ed’s chest tightened as reality sank in. They were so _closely_ tied to Greg that a potion given to _him_ would affect them as well. He’d _never_ wanted _that_. Never. A tiny reminder edged in even as he stared blindly at his boss. _We wanted him to live._ Was it really such a surprise that _all_ of them were paying for that miracle?

“Yeah, I’m staying.” Blinking, Ed surveyed his sleeping friend. “I don’t want him waking up alone.”

“Very well,” Queenscove acknowledged. When Kadie _popped_ back into the room, he turned to the elf. “Kadie, please bring one of the beds from the empty rooms to this one.”

The house-elf squeaked and _popped_ away, returning with a bundle of sleepwear. Ed took the bundle and headed for the bathroom Queenscove pointed him to. The officer changed rapidly, though he refused to wear the embroidered sleeping cap that looked like something right out of a children’s movie. By the time he was done changing, Kadie had returned with the bed.

Amusement twinkled in the Healer’s eyes at the lack of the sleeping cap, but he made no comment on it. Instead, he gestured to the bed. Ed stiffened, but the older man glared at him. “I’ll not have you split your fool skull open on the floor, Sergeant Lane.”

Uncomfortably aware that the Healer wasn’t joking, Ed reluctantly swung himself up on the bed and crawled under the covers without further protest. Exhaustion tugged, but he stubbornly stayed awake, rolling to watch as Queenscove consulted with Kadie before finally waving his wand in the motions of a Switching Spell. The potion vanished and Ed saw Greg’s form go boneless a second later as the magic almost immediately took effect.

Shifting nervously, Ed mentally eyed his connection to Greg, tensing in anticipation. The link began to tingle, tingles that spread inwards until they reached his magical core. Lane felt his core shudder, then it vibrated and let out a soothing hum. The sound cut through him, pulling all his attention inwards as a pulse emanated from both his core and his link to Greg.

Ed wasn’t aware of his muscles relaxing all at once. Wasn’t aware of his breathing slowing and evening out. Only the way his magic pulsed, spreading a soothing feeling through him, lulling him to sleep.

* * * * *

Baird frowned and resisted the urge to shudder. Ten seconds. Not even. Less than ten seconds for the potion to go from Parker’s core to those magically bound to him. And though exhaustion may have played its own part, for the reaction to be _that_ fast…

They were bound together, deeply and irrevocably. Baird had read of such magic, fascinated by the accounts of wizards so _loyal_ to each other that they _chose_ to bind themselves in such a fashion. None of the accounts he’d found had mentioned how powerful the connections were; such information had doubtlessly only been known to the wizards within those circles. Personally, Baird suspected that the depth of the connections varied, based on a variety of factors he could only guess at. But one of the accounts he’d found had described a situation he’d found very unnerving. He hoped the Aurors were not in such a situation, but he feared they were.

If his fears were correct, they would need help. Sooner rather than later, particularly given how _powerfully_ the connections affected them. All of them; Parker was just as deeply affected as the rest, no matter that he was the _source_ of the magic. But first he needed to validate his theory. Fortunately, the Aurors were already in rooms that he and Kadie had designed from the ground up to be private, elite hospital rooms, fully capable of monitoring their occupants at a moment’s notice.

Baird smiled to himself as he moved to a bank of runic arrays at the back of the room and retrieved more parchment. He would start with core scans and work his way out from there…

* * * * *

He woke slowly, warm and comfortable in spite of the way the flesh of his hands and feet throbbed and ached. Magic tingled in his chest, far more lively and active than he could ever remember. No longer was there a…a _dryness_ to the inside of his chest, the burn of using magic far past his limits. Even in his gryphon form, his magic had always felt caged, subdued… especially compared to the energy pulsing through him _now_. And yet the energy wasn’t pushing him to _do_ anything; it seemed just as content with staying in bed as he was. It was so _foreign_ , yet just as natural as his own soul.

Greg kept his eyes closed, dozing for some time before he heard the sound of a door opening. A quiet, purposeful tread entered, coming closer. A tiny _swish_ alerted Parker to the use of a wand nearby; the thoughtful _hmmm_ informed him that his visitor was likely a Healer. Much as part of him wanted to curl up and go back to sleep, hunger nudged at him, along with a fierce longing for his _family_. Hazel blinked open and the officer shifted, trying to figure out how to sit up without using his hands.

“Ah, there you are, Sergeant Parker,” an unfamiliar voice remarked. Greg glanced up, blinking at the sight of an older version of Neal. The wizard moved to his side, helping him to sit up. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

Parker shifted, resisting the urge to rub his chest. “Lord Queenscove, I presume?”

The other man chuckled. “Call me Baird, Sergeant,” he demurred. “My son speaks quite highly of you and your teammates.”

Greg nodded, piecing events together. “Neal called you in last night?” His memory was foggy, but he was fairly certain that Eddie had slipped him a sleeping potion.

The Healer’s smile dropped away. “Yes, he did,” was the clipped response. “You are quite fortunate that your core did not shut down a second time.”

Parker froze, then hung his head. “Spit it out; what did I do to myself this time?” It occurred to him that his broken English disability had vanished, but he swallowed his questions about that. He had a feeling that he was about to get more answers than he wanted.

Queenscove allowed a thoughtful hum. “With your permission, Sergeant, I will stick to the major points. We can arrange for a more in-depth appointment at a later time; I’m well aware that your young wards are still unaware of your survival.”

Hazel narrowed. “And you need time.”

Queenscove bobbed his head. “Just so,” he admitted freely. “I have assembled most of the raw data I can at this juncture, Sergeant, but I also wish to do research into the matter at hand before further discussions.”

Parker considered, then tilted his head to the side. “Go for it.”

The Healer nodded once. “Sergeant, first of all, you have my oath as a Healer that nothing I have discovered in the past day will ever be disclosed to anyone outside of those intimately involved.”

Parker swallowed, but returned the nod. With that, Queenscove cast a diagnostic, though not one Greg recognized. His core appeared…as did the _links_ connected to it. Oh, dear _Aslan_. He _knew_ about the _links!_

“Calm down, Sergeant,” Baird chided. “I have never personally encountered such magic before, but I have read about it.”

Greg froze. “This has happened before?”

“It is quite rare, but yes, this type of magic has been known to pop up from time to time,” Baird confirmed. “The historical accounts are not as in-depth as I would prefer, so I am unsure if the strength of these connections is typical or not.”

“They’ve been getting stronger for awhile now,” Greg whispered, looking down.

A pause, then a solemn nod. “I suspected as much, Sergeant.”

Greg’s head whipped back up. “ _What?_ ”

Baird shook his head. “Sergeant, your magical core shut down due to an extreme case of magical exhaustion, one which most _certainly_ did not exist when I initially examined you, shortly after you were freed from that atrocious Animagus collar.”

Parker frowned. “So it happened between then and yesterday?”

“Yes,” the Healer confirmed. “I am reluctant to speculate as to the reasons at this juncture, but one thing I am certain of.”

“What?”

Baird shifted and minutely gestured to another bed. Greg’s breath caught; Eddie…fast asleep and not even reacting to the nearby discussion. Clearing his throat, the Healer explained, “The potion required to heal your magical core did not just affect _you_.”

Parker’s chest tightened painfully. “It affected them,” he whispered. Slowly, reluctantly, he looked at the Healer. “How bad is it?”

Baird returned his gaze with equal sobriety. “I do not know. That is something I hope to discover.” The wizard paused, weighing his words. “It is not an immediate issue, Sergeant Parker. Most magic does not directly affect a person’s magical core and while the connections themselves cannot be severed, that does not mean they cannot be _changed_.”

Again, his chest tightened. “Change it how?”

His question was met with a sorrowful smile. “That, too, I will have to research, Sergeant Parker.” Baird straightened. “Never fear, Sergeant. I have studied magical cores for my entire life and I have learned a great deal about how they operate.” He smiled broadly. “If nothing else, Sergeant, I believe I may be able to accelerate your core’s healing.”

“You’ve already done that, haven’t you?” Greg realized, touching his chest. The Healer bowed without speaking. Parker frowned, gazing down at the thick, plush carpet as he thought hard. When he spoke, his voice was slow. Weighing every nuance. “So, you think you can not only help my magic heal faster, you can… _adjust_ the links so that…they’re more…even?”

Baird scowled. “They are uneven?”

Shame dropped his eyes. “Yeah. They are.” He _would not_ elaborate, but if Baird was going to help him and his friends, he needed to know.

The Healer sighed heavily. “I feared as much,” he admitted. “That will make things harder, Sergeant, but I will do what I can.” Baird was silent a moment longer, then coughed and straightened. “Now then, let’s have a look at your hands and feet; afterwards, I’m sure I can arrange for a late breakfast.”

Greg’s stomach grumbled and his hands throbbed. And he _still_ hadn’t seen his _nipotes_ yet. Without speaking, he lifted his hands and held them out, palms up. Much as he wanted the problems with the ‘team sense’ to get fixed, _yesterday_ , he wanted his _family_ back even _more_.


	9. To Know the Place for the First Time

By the time Queenscove was finished with his examination, Ed had woken up. Kadie brought breakfast for Greg – more broth, which he was really getting quite sick of – and a change of clothes for Ed. The tall, lean Sergeant ducked into the bathroom and Parker eyed his broth balefully. Having been thoroughly scolded by the Healer for abusing already damaged flesh, he had to wonder if he was going to be allowed to eat by himself or if Queenscove would insist on spoon-feeding.

His palms tingled eerily, his own magic immediately sensing a spell, and Greg froze, jerking up to regard the older man.

“That will protect your hands while you eat,” Baird explained. “If you finish all of that, I will allow you to shower as well.”

“Copy,” Parker murmured, tucking into his meal with a will.

Over the next hour, his friends trickled in, fresh from their own meals and showers. Greg traded places with Ed, showering while his fellow Sergeant ate. By the time both men were finished, Neal had arrived, sporting a heavy scowl.

“Nealan?” Baird inquired.

Neal looked directly at Greg. “Your mobster wants to see you,” he announced. “And Commander Holleran says you lot need to come in unless you’re on your deathbed.”

The negotiator eyed the young wizard, then huffed. “What did Anthony threaten you with?”

The Junior Auror twitched nervously. “He, um, he said if you don’t show up, he’s gonna grab your whole crew.”

Ed and the rest of Team One bristled, but Greg just sighed. “Does someone have my cellphone?”

“Here, Boss,” Spike replied, pulling it out. At the looks he got, the bomb tech shrugged. “I saw it on the bedside table last night. Figured we didn’t wanna leave it behind.”

“Thanks, Spike,” Greg remarked, reclaiming the device. “I’ll let Holleran know we have one more loose end to tie up, then we’ll be in.”

* * * * *

Anthony looked disappointed that Greg wasn’t alone, but rallied. “Back on your feet for good, Boss?”

“I’ve got a ways to go,” Greg admitted, closing with the other man. “What do you need, Anthony?”

Jealousy shone in the mobster’s dark eyes. “You’re going back to them. After they left you behind.” The silent, _Why?_ along with, _I won’t walk away like_ them _,_ rang loud in the silence of the small warehouse.

Ah. The negotiator sighed, but met the other man’s gaze with steady calm. “How long, Anthony? How long do you think I could last undercover without breaking and ending up drop-dead _drunk_?” He let the question hang, then drove forward. “How long could _you_ live with a _cop_ for a boss? I talked a good game, I kept people in line, and I didn’t hold back against Castor, but _that_ was because I _had_ to protect my _family_.”

Unhappiness shone in Anthony’s eyes. “I could take it.”

“Maybe you could,” Greg allowed. “But _I_ couldn’t. I’m sorry, Anthony, but I can’t _live_ in your world. I meant it; I’m a cop, I’m SRU. That will never change.” The stocky, but gaunt man’s shoulders slumped. “Anthony, odds are, by the end of today, I’ll either be on extended sick leave or fast-tracked for retirement.”

“And I can’t talk you out of it?” Anthony pleaded. “Boss, I don’t care; _we_ don’t care. You’re the best boss any of us ever had.”

Greg let his own desperation show. “Anthony, do you have any _idea_ how long it’s been since I saw my _family_?”

The mobster jerked. “You’re divorced,” he blurted.

“I am,” the negotiator acknowledged. “But I have an orphan niece and nephew I’ve been raising for about five years.” Desperation deepened. “They spent two _months_ thinking I’d fallen off the wagon and started drinking again. Then came the fire, Anthony, and everyone I know and love _believed_ I’d _died_.” Anguish joined the desperation. “And when I came back, I couldn’t risk it; I couldn’t risk Pollux finding out about _mio nipotes_. Not after I killed his brother and sister.” Greg’s own plea wove through his words. “I hear you, Anthony, but you and the others…you _want_ me, but you don’t _need_ me.” His breath caught. “They need me, Anthony. And _I_ need _them_.”

It took another few minutes, but Anthony finally jerked a nod. “Can I ask one thing?”

“Sure.”

The Italian criminal fidgeted, almost squirming. “How come you let that guy Reese take all the credit for those last two punks?”

Parker cringed, a movement that attracted his friends’ attention. “Greg?” Ed questioned, pinning his fellow Sergeant with a searching, worried, yet demanding look.

The negotiator considered, then looked up, meeting the curious expressions of his friends – yes, even Anthony. “All right,” he gave in. “I’ll tell you. But if we’re going to talk about this, I’m going to need somewhere to sit down.”

“I can do that, Boss,” Anthony agreed at once.

* * * * *

Parker resisted the urge to shake his head. Anthony might’ve _verbally_ given in, but he clearly hadn’t given up; the mobster had picked a diner right in the middle of ‘Elias’ territory, close to one of the organization’s other buildings. Greg had but to say the word and he would be back at the helm of the criminal organization.

Not that he was _going_ to say that word…plus, although Anthony didn’t realize it, he’d actually picked the worst possible diner for their meeting. The Sergeant shifted to the middle of the group, staying out of sight and resisting the urge to smile at Anthony’s sour expression when Lou greeted Lisa; the young owner of Last Chance Diner hugged her boyfriend and guided the group to a small room, normally used for the odd birthday party. Lou ordered for all of them, even Anthony, and murmured something in Lisa’s ear before she left. Greg suspected that had been his own order, though Lisa was unlikely to realize that – his team was holding firm on the broth issue, much to his chagrin.

The Sergeant swallowed a sigh; he was getting very sick of broth, but he did appreciate that his friends were just trying their best to help and protect him. In the meantime, he eyed Lou. “Rhodey, any ideas how long they’ll take?”

“We’ve got some time, Boss,” Lou replied. “I told Lis we weren’t in a hurry and asked her to send someone else in when it’s ready.” The negotiator cast Lou an apologetic glance, but the less-lethal specialist shook his head. “No, Boss; your kids should know first. Lis will understand.”

Greg nodded, then shifted his attention to the whole group. “Okay, let’s set the stage. Scott, you remember what Holleran told you about back then?”

“Sure,” Ed agreed gamely. Without prompting, he leaned forward and explained, “Guys, back then, Castor Troy pretty much had the run of the whole city. All the cops were afraid of him and nobody made any moves against him.”

“Except Archer,” Wordy murmured.

Parker rubbed his forehead. “Archer had a personal vendetta, Steve. He and his three-year-old son were playing at a park one day and someone shot him.” Over the sharp, indrawn breaths, the Sergeant added, “The bullet went through him and hit his son; the boy died instantly.” Solemn hazel swept the table. “Rightly or wrongly, Archer believed Castor Troy had _personally_ taken that shot at him. After the son’s funeral, he went after Castor as hard as he could; didn’t care what anyone else said.”

“And no one helped him?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Thor,” Ed stepped in, drawing his fellow sniper’s attention. “When Holleran pulled me in and told me about Castor Troy, I saw his hands start trembling. It’s been twenty _years_ and he’s _still_ afraid of this guy.”

“For good reason,” Greg put in. “Castor made examples out of any cop that crossed his organization’s path. Didn’t matter if it was a patrol cop on the beat who got called in on a domestic or a meter maid writing tickets; if they ‘interfered’ with Troy’s men, he took it out of their hides.” The Sergeant blew out a breath. “By the time I started at the Academy, it was so bad that there were parts of Toronto that no cop would enter.”

“ _No-go_ zones?” Sam hissed.

“That’s right,” Parker confirmed. “Scott, does everyone besides Anthony already know about the Academy?”

To his surprise, Ed shook his head. Turning to their teammates, he explained, “Holleran told me that each year, Castor Troy would ‘congratulate’ the top ten cadets.” The Sergeant deliberately paused. “They usually didn’t survive that.”

“Oy vey,” Spike mumbled. “How come they never brought in the Mounties or the army or something?”

“Especially if this was going on for _years_ ,” Wordy agreed. “I mean, the public _had_ to know something was up.”

“Three reasons: the city’s population boom, the recession, and the amalgamation,” Greg replied. “Castor Troy operated during the late ‘80s, early ‘90s, guys. Right when the city was growing so fast nobody knew which way was up. The amalgamation didn’t happen until ’98, but everyone knew it was on the table a lot earlier than that.” He grimaced. “As bad as it sounds, the public and the mayor’s office had other things to worry about. Castor Troy got away with highway robbery because nobody _cared_ if a couple cops ended up dead here or there.”

Even Anthony looked appalled; the idea that the entire _city_ could overlook deaths among its law enforcement was a sobering one.

“Then this crazy rookie arrested him,” Ed finally put in, a twinkle in his eye.

Embarrassed, Parker shrugged. “You know, I almost didn’t do it,” he confessed. “I mean, I figured, what am I to him? He can squash me like a bug without even looking.” He looked down at the table, tracing invisible lines on the wood. “Then I thought, what have I got to lose? I wasn’t much of a talker back then, guys, not all that good at investigating, and I was in the lowest third of my graduating class. Back then, I figured I’d be a patrol cop until they got sick of me, then I’d work security until I retired.”

He could _feel_ the incredulous stares, then Spike quipped, “Boy were _you_ wrong.”

“Don’t quit your day job,” Lou agreed. “The fortune-teller gig is _not_ your strong suit.”

The Sergeant shrugged as his friends snickered at him. “Well, that’s what I thought.” He stopped, still not looking up. “I decided, if I’m gonna do _one_ big thing as a cop, I might as well take down the city’s boogieman. And if his guys take me out, well…they’ll remember me. At least for awhile.” A breath, gathering himself. “So I did it; I marched over to him and had him in cuffs before he even realized what I was gonna do.”

“Then you called for backup,” Wordy filled in helpfully.

A nod. “After that, I was in protective custody so fast, all I had was the clothes I was wearing.” Old grief shone. “Archer wouldn’t even let me go back to my place to get my dog.”

The grief alone told the listeners what had happened to the dog. Soft, Jules asked, “What was his name?”

“ _She_ ,” Greg corrected. He shook his head. “Her name was Rosalie and she was this sweet little beagle I found at the shelter after I moved away from home.” A faint smile of remembrance. “One Halloween, she snuck out my front door and followed a group of kids home ‘cause she wanted their candy.” The smile dropped away. “I kept pestering Archer to go get her; I didn’t care about anything else, but I didn’t want her to starve.” In spite of his best effort, a few tears leaked out and he roughly rubbed them away. “He found her right next to her bowl; they slipped poison in her dog food.”

Lou and Spike muttered to each other, fury ringing, and the rest of his friends weren’t all that far behind. _Pets_ , like family, were off-limits. Not that Castor Troy’s men had _cared_ about that minor detail. Next to him, Wordy reached out a hand and squeezed his shoulder, shared grief shining.

Parker did his best to swallow one final sniff, then moved on. “Anyway…after the trial, they moved me to another station. Gave me a new training officer.”

“What happened to your old one?” Ed questioned.

The responding shrug was limp. “Said he wasn’t gonna ride with a dead man,” Greg replied. “And no one talked to me unless they had to, Scott. As far as they were concerned, they didn’t wanna get caught in the crossfire when Troy’s men took me out.”

“All your friends cut you off? Everyone at your _precinct_?” Spike demanded.

Parker nodded. “Wasn’t until the next year that anyone besides my new training officer talked to me, Tony. And he was a crusty old guy; no wife, no kids. He told me he figured if someone took him out along with me, well, at least he wasn’t leaving anyone behind.”

Ed and Wordy vibrated with outrage, the rest of his friends not far behind. Anthony actually growled something under his breath about craven, cowardly cops and not a single one of his tablemates glared at him for the crack.

Jules spoke up before he could continue. “So, the next year…the new rookies didn’t know about you?”

“No, they knew,” Greg corrected. “If not by the end of the first day, definitely by the end of the first week.” His sorrowful smile re-emerged. “Two of them decided they didn’t care.”

“Reese,” Anthony concluded.

“Yes and no,” Parker countered. “The ‘Reese’ you’ve interacted with Anthony…his real name is Lionel Fusco. Our third friend was John Reese.”

Wordy froze. “The patrol car,” he whispered. When the rest looked at him, he swallowed hard. Meeting his boss’s eyes, he said, “Reese was the cop in your patrol car when it blew up, wasn’t he?”

Tension vibrated, then Greg hung his head. “Yes, he was, Steve.”

* * * * *

“Lionel and John; they’d made friends at the Academy. They were practically polar opposites, but they played off each other really well.”

_Constable Greg Parker sighed to himself as he changed into his uniform. One thing he hadn’t banked on when he’d arrested the notorious Castor Troy was ending up a pariah. Everyone considered him a dead man walking and no one wanted to be within blast range, so the young cop had found himself with no friends to call his own. His new training officer was old school and not inclined to chatter, leaving the normally friendly man with no outlet for even casual conversation._

_He’d hoped the new crop of graduates from the Academy might change his fortunes, but he’d forgotten about the gossip chain. Within two days, all the newbies had been warned to stay away from the dead man walking. The few newbies that he’d been able to introduce himself to had promptly gone mute, turning away and pretending not to hear him when he tried to strike up a conversation._

_“You know, I outta thank you.”_

_Greg jumped a meter, whirling as he landed to regard a man even stockier than himself, with dark brown curly hair, serious blue eyes, and a partly sarcastic, partly friendly, and partly amused expression. “Thank me for what?”_

_The other man shrugged. “For takin’ that louse down. My friend…he was in the top ten this year.” For a moment, his jaw worked. Then he stuck out his hand. “Lionel Fusco.”_

_With wary hope, Greg shook the offered hand. “Greg Parker.” He wanted to ask if the friend had been assigned to the same precinct, but swallowed the question. Awe and gratitude didn’t exactly make for long-lasting friendships._

_“Lionel?” a smooth baritone voice called._

_Twisting, Fusco called, “In here, Reese.” Glancing back at Greg, he smirked. “It’s gonna burn him that I got to you first, you know.”_

“John, he was a vet, like you, Thor. Served until an injury got him an honorable discharge, then he got into the Academy after he healed up. He was good, really good.”

_“You know, you’d get more if you talked to people,” John observed, almost lounging with his beer. Gesturing with the drink, he added, “Both of you. You just stick to business and you never talk to anyone. Leaves you chasing your tails.”_

_“Hey, we gotta make the Wonder Boy look good,” Lionel countered. “Right, Greg?”_

_Greg saluted his fellow constable. “Wonder Boy status is all yours, John.”_

_The dark-haired man made a face. He was taller than his two friends, with slicked back raven hair that hugged his head in a regulation haircut and an angular look to his face and frame that his stockier colleagues lacked. Startlingly gray eyes narrowed at Lionel and Greg, but he opted not to speak, merely tucking into his beer._

_Then again, he didn’t need to; Greg felt his stomach twist in guilt. John believed he was throwing away his career by simply skating by and just marking time, but the other man didn’t understand. Standing out just left you with no friends and a scary reputation. And Greg Parker would do whatever he had to do in order to keep his head down from now on. He couldn’t take losing any more friends._

“He, ah, he just had one problem. He could make a patrol car radio break just by _staring_ at it. Lionel and I lost count of the times he got reamed out for that, but he’d get in a patrol car before shift and he’d say the radio didn’t _sound_ right. So he’d tinker with it, trying to fix it, until, well…it didn’t _sound_ at all.”

_“Greg.”_

_Almost done with his pre-shift check of his patrol car, Greg turned to see John, almost frantic. “Something wrong?”_

_Misery shone in the other constable’s eyes. “My car radio, Greg.”_

Not again. _Greg sighed heavily, rubbing his face. “Broken?”_

_John nodded tightly. “Greg, the Sarge is gonna_ freak _when he finds out.”_

_More than freak, Greg knew. John was on his final warning, but they were only a few weeks away from when the newbies would be eligible to start moving up. He was already planning to ask Archer if John could have the promotion to Homicide that was currently slated for_ him _. That would get John away from the radios he couldn’t seem to help breaking. And John was a better cop than him anyway. He’d go far, much further than Greg Parker, career beat cop._

_“John,” Greg said aloud, waiting until his friend was looking at him. “We can switch cars. Just for today, no one has to know. I’ll take the rap.”_

_Gratitude shone. “Thanks, Greg.”_

_Later, Parker’s training officer just shook his head, smiling ever so slightly at Greg’s abashed look and fumbling explanation. He knew, but he wouldn’t say anything. And by that alone, Greg knew the older man agreed with him. John was a good cop; he shouldn’t lose his career over a few broken radios._

* * * * *

Old shame shone as Greg finished his story. “That was the day, guys. About an hour into shift, we got the call. John’s patrol car… _my_ patrol car…it blew up. John, his training officer; they both died instantly.” A deep, miserable breath. “Lionel blamed me.”

His friends all stiffened in outrage. “He blamed _you_?” Sam hissed. “For _what_? Trying to help a friend stay on the job?”

Greg shrugged limply. “He was right, though. If it had been _me_ in my patrol car, John wouldn’t have been fired. Wouldn’t look good, to fire a cop right after two got murdered.”

“You didn’t _know_ ,” Jules cut in fiercely. “You _couldn’t_ have known! You were just trying to help.”

The Sergeant looked away rather than respond. “I stayed long enough for the funerals, then asked for another transfer. I asked my Sarge to bury the Castor Troy arrest, too; I didn’t want anyone to know, not after John died.” Hazel closed. “Not that it helped; everyone knew who I was within a week of my transfer.”

“I didn’t,” Ed pointed out.

Parker allowed a faint smile. “Scott, that was almost two years after John died. Long enough for the rumors to make the rounds and muddy the waters.” Long enough for the future SRU negotiator to start becoming the cop John Reese had believed he _could_ be. Besides, what had he had to lose? With no one willing to befriend him, he’d put his nose to the grindstone and started talking to just about anyone he _could_. One thing had led to another and pretty soon he was starting to make a new name for himself, gaining a reputation that had nothing to do with the infamous Castor Troy or his own miserable Academy scores.

By the time he’d met Eddie, he’d been well on his way to becoming a workaholic simply because he had no other _outlets_. Oh, he had managed to make a few connections here and there, but all of them were stand-offish. Willing to be friendly and have a few drinks after work, nothing more, nothing less. Ed had been his first _real_ friend after John’s death and Lionel’s angry rejection. Looking back, it was amazing he hadn’t run Eddie off in those first few weeks with his inane babble and near desperate clinging.

“After all that, you just _gave_ that guy credit for Pollux Troy?” Sam questioned. “He treated you like _dirt_ , Boss.”

“I got his friend killed,” Greg replied simply.

“No, you _didn’t_ ,” Spike insisted.

“The guy who planted the bomb did,” Lou agreed.

“Enough.” All heads turned to Ed, expressions distinctly mulish. The sniper shook his head. “It’s been almost twenty years, guys. We’re not gonna win this one; Greg’s too stubborn to listen to reason.”

Parker winced at the direct hit, but didn’t deny it. He’d spent too much of his life blaming himself for John’s death to change his mind _now_. He couldn’t just flip a switch and stop that cycle; couldn’t change a two-decade mindset in the course of one argument. Not that they’d give up, not now that they knew about it.

His fellow Sergeant gazed at him placidly. “So that’s the story. You want Lionel to have the credit so he can move on.”

“And me,” Greg whispered. “It’s over now, Scott. Castor Troy is dead. Brenda Troy is dead. Pollux Troy is in custody and he’ll never see the light of day again.” He closed his eyes. “Castor Troy might haunt the rest of my career, especially after Holleran had to change my file, but he’s _gone_. He can’t hurt me or the people I care about any more.”

Opening them again, he turned to the one non-cop at the table. “Anthony, I can’t give you what you’re asking for. Tell the others whatever story you want, but you might as well take over for good this time.” He smiled faintly. “And keep to the Code.”

Anthony returned his gaze without twitching. “Hang the Code,” he snapped. “And hang the rules; they’re more like guidelines anyway.”

Off to the side, Spike and Lou snickered at the near-perfect imitation of Elizabeth Swann. Wordy perked up, smirking himself. “Is this the part where we dump him overboard in the lifeboat?” he asked innocently, prompting a fresh wave of snickering.

“And steal the ship,” Lou agreed, solemn, though his dancing eyes betrayed him.

“Or just the captain,” Jules mused, gazing directly at her boss.

Greg quelled his pranksters with a glare, then arched a brow at Anthony. “Look at it this way,” he suggested. “At least I’m not trying to get myself killed this time.”

“You’d _better_ not, Sarge,” Wordy growled, suddenly not an ounce of playfulness in his voice or on his face.

Wait, _what_? The Sergeant froze at the vehemence in his former constable’s tone. Weren’t they still mad at him? Furious over the secrets he’d kept and _livid_ at what _his_ magic had done to them, unwillingly and unasked for? Surely they weren’t going to _forgive_ him after everything _he’d_ done to them…

A hand touched his shoulder and squeezed. _‘Greg, if the_ only _way for you to survive was for us to end up like this, it’s worth it. And I’ll keep sayin’ that as many times as I have to, buddy.’_

_‘Boss,_ we _chose you, too,’_ Jules put in. _‘If you’d died back then, we never would’ve known we were missing the best of us.’_

_‘And Lionel has no idea what he turned his back on,’_ Spike insisted. _‘He had one of the greatest cops in the_ city _for his friend and he walked away.’_

_‘I’m not,’_ Greg whispered. _‘I’m not…I never_ wanted _to be one of the best cops in the city.’_

_‘And that’s why you are,’_ Ed replied gently. _‘Maybe John could’ve been the best if he’d lived, I don’t know, but I_ do _know he’d never be as good as you, Greg. He came to_ you _for help and you helped him.’_

_‘I got him_ killed _!’_ Greg snarled.

_‘And if he’d learned to stop messing with his radio, he wouldn’t have had to come running to you to save his career,’_ Lou pointed out.

So much for them dropping the argument. Greg’s shoulders hunched defensively and he turned his head away, his posture begging for them to _stop_.

“All right, who’s ready to eat?” a perky waitress inquired loudly as she made her way into the party room with a tray of steaming food.

The moment shattered, Lou immediately turning to the young woman and directing her as to which order went where. To Greg’s everlasting shock, the dish set in front of him was a bowl of vegetable beef soup, soft enough to pass muster with the Healer, but much heartier than the broth he’d been stuck with for the past _week_.

* * * * *

They walked in the front door of the SRU and Greg couldn’t help but note that he’d been nudged to the front and center as Team One and their former Sergeant made their way inside the barn. At the dispatcher’s desk, Winnie saw him first and her gasp rang out, drawing instant attention from two officers on the far side of the desk, close to the locker room ramp. They gawped as Winnie stood up, shedding her headset; tears slipped down her face and both hands cupped her mouth for an instant as she fought for composure.

Then the dispatcher broke and skidded around her desk, racing straight to Greg and hugging him fiercely. He returned the hug, painfully aware that Winnie was crying and shaking as she clung to him. While not an _official_ part of his team – _former_ team – she’d had their backs ever since finding out about magic. It stood to reason that Winnie had been just as deeply affected as his friends over what had happened.

After a minute or two, she pulled back with a final choked sob. “You’re alive,” she whispered. “You…you’re _alive_ … _how_?”

Hazel returned her regard, steady behind his wince. “Can I get a rain check on that explanation, Winnie? Commander Holleran’s expecting us.”

“Yes, sir,” Winnie agreed at once, though the questions and emotions shone in her deep brown eyes.

With one final pat to her arm, Greg angled across the atrium, acutely aware of the whispers and the staring. Almost to himself, he grumbled, _‘If I knew coming back from the dead was this much work…’_

_‘You’d do it anyway,’_ Wordy pointed out cheerfully.

Parker cast his former constable a glare, then sighed and looked forward again. Wordy was right; he _still_ would’ve come back and gone through every painful encounter between his arrival in Toronto and _this_ precise moment. Without hesitation and unflinchingly…it was all _worth_ it – or would be once he finally had his _nipotes_ back in his arms. Much as he loved his team – _former_ team – every last sacrifice had been for his _kids_ , to keep them alive and safe.

Ed stepped in front of him a few steps before they reached the commander’s office and knocked on the door, doing it in the injured man’s stead. At the call to “Enter,” Ed turned the knob and pushed the door open, sidestepping so Greg could take the lead once more. Clearly, his former team leader _still_ hadn’t given up on letting him have Team One again. But Eddie had _earned_ his promotion and Greg _refused_ to even _consider_ taking that promotion away from him. Even if Ed was willing, _he_ was not; his friend had long since outgrown his team leader role, just as Wordy had outgrown his backup team leader role. Things could never go back to what they had been, no matter how much they _wanted_ them to.

Setting the matter aside, Greg stepped into the office, blinking in surprise at the sight of Dr. Toth and Mayor Dickerson waiting for them along with Commander Holleran. Focusing on his commander, he said, “Team One and myself reporting as ordered, sir.” Stepping further inside, he crossed to be near the desk, but continued to stand. “We’ve returned the vehicles Intelligence Services lent us and submitted expenses for the clothing Constable Callaghan obtained on my behalf.” The Sergeant resisted the urge to smirk at the last; IS had _not_ been impressed, but given that _both_ handlers he’d been assigned had turned out to be Castor Troy’s men, he really didn’t care.

Holleran nodded, an odd gleam in his eyes. “Excellent work, Sergeant Parker.” He glanced over at the mayor. “Does that satisfy you, Your Worship?”

“Very much so, Commander Holleran,” Mayor Dickerson replied. “A pity about young Geb, but better that this came out now than during the election.”

A discreet hand signal kept his friends from commenting; Greg himself maintained a straight face and forebode to remark on ‘Geb’ _actually_ being Pollux Troy. No need to make an enemy, after all, no matter how _stupid_ the mayor had been to _hire_ a _mob boss_.

Commander Holleran nodded, shifting back to Parker. He nudged a piece of paper across his desk and dug out a pen. “Sergeant, one last signature and you’re back in the SRU.”

“Yes, sir,” Greg acknowledged, taking the rather fancy – and comfortable – pen. He leaned over, scanning for where his signature needed to go, then signed as best he could. The resulting signature wasn’t _quite_ like his usual signature, but given the fact he’d had to discreetly trigger his magic to overcome the nerve damage in his fingers, it could’ve been much worse.

Holleran took the pen back and turned the paperwork, inspecting the signature for a few seconds, then smiled. He flicked another glance at the mayor and, to Greg’s surprise, the mayor nodded to the commander. Unease trickled up the Sergeant’s spine…what was going on? Deepening his unease, his boss set the pen down on top of the paperwork and reached down to tug a drawer open. Automatically, Greg backed up a step as Commander Holleran pulled something out of the drawer and strode around his desk.

The commander’s stern gaze swept all of them. “Attention!” he barked; the officers responded instantly, saluting their superior. Shifting back to Parker, Holleran opened the deep blue velvet box in his hands, revealing a pair of bronze maple leaves. “Congratulations, _Lieutenant_ Parker,” he announced.

Greg’s jaw dropped for a few seconds before he managed to close it with a _click_. “Sir?” he managed, the sound rather choked. After _everything_ he’d pulled, all the rules his team had flouted over the past several years, he was being _promoted_?

Commander Holleran smiled broadly. “You’ve earned it, Greg. Several times over.” He glanced over at Dr. Toth before turning back to his officer. Reaching out, he scooped up the paperwork that Greg had just signed. “In fact, if you’ll look at this, you’ll see who all agrees with me.”

Stunned, Greg took the paperwork, finally reading what he’d overlooked before. This wasn’t the paperwork to transfer him back into the SRU, this was his _promotion_. In addition to his own signature at the bottom, he could see signatures from Commander Holleran, Dr. Larry Toth, Mayor Dickerson and…his mind stalled in shock. Commander Anne Locksley. She had _openly_ signed paperwork that she _knew_ would be tech-side. And Toth…after _everything_ Toth had said about him, about how he didn’t trust _himself_ , about how he’d overlooked the real and genuine problems with his team, about how he treated his team more like a _family_ than a SWAT team… _Toth_ was signing off on a _promotion_?

He looked up into his commander’s wry smirk. “You’ve been planning this for awhile.”

Holleran nodded. “Since before your undercover assignment,” he confirmed. The dark man straightened. “Now, your first order, Lieutenant Parker, is to get yourself checked out. I don’t want you back on-duty until your doctor clears you. At that time, we’ll discuss your duties and how the SRU will work going forward.”

There wasn’t much Parker could say to that except, “Yes, sir.” Reaching out, he accepted the velvet box with his new rank insignia. The small brass maple leaves were meant to go on shoulder boards, something he’d never had to wear before as they weren’t worn by ranks lower than Inspector. And Lieutenant, apparently.

Numb with shock at the unexpected promotion, he almost didn’t hear the mayor ask, “Commander, why would Lieutenant Parker need to see a doctor?”

In front of him, Holleran stiffened, then sighed and reached out. Reading his boss’s intent, Greg handed the box back and reluctantly turned to face the mayor. Without speaking, he stretched out both hands, palms up. The abraded flesh spoke volumes and Parker looked down and away rather than meet Mayor Dickerson’s horrified gaze.

“Dear gawd; Parker, you went _undercover_ like that?” Dickerson hissed. At the officer’s nod, he demanded, “For gawd’s sake, _why_?”

Resolution straightened his spine. Meeting the other man’s eyes squarely, Greg replied, “So Pollux Troy would never find out about my niece and nephew, sir. I knew if he found out I was physically compromised, he wouldn’t waste time or effort with the undercover scheme; he’d just come straight for my throat.” His chest tightened. “I couldn’t let that happen, sir.” Tears stung his eyes. “Everything I did, sir, every sacrifice I made, I did it for _them_.”

“Perhaps we could discuss this elsewhere, Mr. Mayor,” Commander Holleran interjected. “I suspect Team One was still holding out hope that Lieutenant Parker would rejoin them.” The commander allowed a shark’s smile. “I believe I can answer any further questions you have.”

So saying, he gave Greg back the box with his lieutenant maple leaves and ushered both the mayor and Dr. Toth out of his office. Before the men could leave, Greg called, “Larry.”

Dr. Toth turned back, meeting Parker’s gaze with one eyebrow hiked in silent question.

“Thank you,” Greg said firmly, his own eyes communicating the depths of that gratitude.

Larry Toth tipped his head, a tiny smile appearing. “It was my pleasure, _Lieutenant_.”

The brand-new lieutenant felt his breath catch as the psychologist left and gently closed the door behind him. More tears stung his eyes and he twisted to look at his _former_ team. It was true, he was done. He’d never be Team One again – never _officially_ be a part of _any_ SRU team again. Even without the details, he could guess at Holleran’s plan. He would answer to the commander while all four SRU Sergeants answered to _him_.

“Greg.”

Mute and numb, he gazed up into Eddie’s eyes.

“You’re not getting off of our team _that_ easy, Boss,” Ed told him, determination and ferocity weaving through every word. “Maybe all the other Sergeants are gonna answer to you, but I don’t care. _We_ don’t care. You’re Team One. You always have been.”

Wordy cleared his throat. “Sarge, you were Team One even when you were hip-deep in bad guys, pretending to be the baddest bad guy of them all.”

“You were Team One when you got stranded in the Rocky Mountains,” Jules concurred.

“And you were Team One when you walked every _kilometer_ of the way home,” Sam insisted, blue eyes intent.

“You were Team One when you busted in on that fire and saved Ed’s life,” Spike piped up.

“Not to mention when you were helping us retake the barn,” Lou agreed.

Astonishment blazed within him, along with instinctive protest. After _everything_ he’d done to them, they still _wanted_ him? Even with how _closely_ the ‘team sense’ had tied them together, violating privacy, free will, and every sense of human decency, they _still_ thought it was worth it? Why? What had _he_ ever done to be worthy of their trust, their unshakable faith in him?

Ed’s hands came down on his shoulders, squeezing hard enough to make him look up. “Greg, we’re not stupid. Of _course_ we don’t like what’s been going on with… _everything_.” He stopped, long enough that Parker knew his friend was putting that much extra weight on his words. “But you know what, buddy? We made that call; we _wanted_ you to live.” _And you did._

Even under Eddie’s hands, his shoulders hunched.

Wordy moved up next to them, not reaching out, but his presence just as solid and steady as ever. “Sarge, you gotta stop blaming yourself for what happened back then. Don’t you _ever_ say that John should’ve lived instead of you.” Gray pinned him. “You can say you wished he could’ve lived, but I wouldn’t trade you for him for _anything_.”

“You didn’t even know him,” Greg croaked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam cut in from the other side. “We know _you_. And if he was your friend, then he must’ve been a pretty good guy. But what you’ve done, Boss…he never could’ve done any of it.”

The lieutenant shook his head, but…but a part of him knew. Sam was right; John never could’ve taken his _nipotes_ in. John had probably been just like any other police officer around the world; either a Squib-born or non-magical. Even if he’d known about magic, he wouldn’t have had the Calvin name backing him. He couldn’t have bargained with two Aurors and kept his teammates’ memories from getting erased. Because of who he was, who his _family_ was, Greg had been able to do that. It still didn’t change the way he felt or the grief he’d never been able to truly express.

Leaning into Eddie’s grip, Greg let the tears come for a man two decades dead. His friends…his _team_ …surrounded him, supporting him, just as they always did. Nor were the tears _solely_ for John – they were for his long-lost canine companion, the only true friend he’d had as a young officer. They were even for himself, for the rookie constable who’d walked into a bar only to change the entire course of his career with one impulsive decision. They were for the jaded constable who’d taken his alienation from his fellow officers and Lionel’s angry rejection and turned it into a drive to get promoted into Homicide and leave the streets behind. The hard-bitten detective who’d turned to drink and nearly lost it all. Even the rookie SRU cop who’d been absolutely _terrified_ of screwing up because he _literally_ had nowhere else to go.

His Auror badge warmed and vibrated on his belt, bringing the silent tears to a startled halt. Warily, Greg reached down and pulled the badge off, triggering its shift back to a wallet badge as he lifted it. Flipping it open, he stared at the change to his rank. Auror _Lieutenant_.

Craning to look, Ed whispered, “Welcome home, Greg.”

_Home_. He was really _home_. He’d _really_ made it. In spite of the odds and every last obstacle between himself and his homecoming, he’d _made_ it. No…wait…not quite…not yet…

“Wordy?”

“Yeah, Sarge?”

Hazel lit with joy as he glanced up at his friend. “Could you get _mio nipotes_ here?”

Wordy grinned right back. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * * * *

Four months. Four months since he’d last seen the two teenagers he considered his own. Even the sound of them greeting Wordy was almost enough to reduce him to tears – again. He wiped away the sudden onslaught of dust in his eyes and handed the velvet box with his new rank pins off to Eddie.

“So the thing is,” Wordy’s voice explained, coming closer to Holleran’s closed office door, “We know your uncle was in the fire, but one of the two bodies they found was _female_.”

“That means Castor Troy survived.” Lance’s voice was a furious, poisonous hiss.

“That’s the conclusion Holleran came to,” Wordy confirmed. “I mean, we _all_ know Sarge would’ve checked in ASAP, unless he _couldn’t_.”

Greg swallowed hard, looking down. Ed’s hand found his shoulder and squeezed.

“But, uh, a couple days ago, Holleran got the final report back. They had to check both bodies against dental records.”

“They identified him?” Impossible hope and crushing grief mixed in Alanna’s words.

“That’s just it, kids. They _didn’t_. And when Holleran told us that, Ed figured it out. He figured out how Sarge could survive that fire and never check in.”

“How?” Alanna wondered aloud, but her brother gasped.

The door to Holleran’s office almost bounced as Lance thrust it open. There was a moment as he froze, jaw dropping open at the sight of his uncle. Holding his breath, Greg opened his arms.

“Uncle Greg!” Alanna shrieked in joy as her brother led the charge. Ed shifted to be directly behind him and braced his shoulders, keeping him upright as the teenagers homed in and swamped their target.

Greg flung his arms around them both, openly sobbing and ignoring the protest from his palms. He pulled them close, feeling them nestle into his shoulders. He could hear their breathing and feel their hearts beat a firm rap against his chest. For four months, he’d dreamed of this moment and it was even better than he’d dared imagine. His _nipotes_ were solid and real and clinging to him just as tightly as he clung to them.

“I got you,” he murmured. “I’m here; I’m not going anywhere.” The words were just as much for himself as for them. They were safe, they were _alive_. He hadn’t lost them to an enemy he’d made long before they were born.

Hands and feet chose that moment to scream and give out. Lance caught him as he slumped, unable to stand. “Uncle Greg?” Pure terror rang.

“Sam, get that chair,” Eddie ordered, getting under an arm. “Kiddo, help me out here.” Between his friend and his nephew, Greg was levered onto a chair and Jules swept around Alanna to get his shoes off. As she worked, Ed drew the teenagers aside. “It’s a long story, kids, but your uncle’s going to be down for a couple months. It’s not life-threatening,” he added hastily at their frightened expressions. Reaching out, he snagged one of Parker’s wrists and turned it towards the pair, palm up.

“No healing magic,” Wordy chided, grabbing Alanna’s arm as she gasped and reached for the abraded flesh, fingers lit purple. “We gotta take this slow and steady, but Sarge’s gonna be fine.” At the doubtful looks he received, complete with the red-head’s anxious nibble at her lip, Wordy did his best to smile. “And if he’s not, we can rake Neal’s Dad over the coals.”

“Wordy,” Greg chided. Gazing up at his _nipotes_ , he tugged his wrist free and opened his arms again. “Come here, you two. I’m not done enjoying the moment.”

Alanna’s laugh was shaky, but real. She and her brother encircled Greg, hugging him with all their might. He hugged right back, closing his eyes and breathing in their unique scents.

Now, _finally_ , he was _truly_ home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rather suspect some of you have seen this coming for awhile. While I never came out and said it until now, I've been hinting at this for a couple of stories. That _said_ …when I was researching Canadian police ranks, I made a few interesting discoveries.
> 
> First off, in _real life_ , there is no such thing as a Toronto Police Lieutenant. Of course, ahem, cough, cough, there's _also_ no such thing as a Toronto Police Commander. And yet…Commander Holleran is canon all the way. That said, the real life Toronto Police Ranks go something like this: Constable, Sergeant, Staff Sergeant, Inspector, etc. But Staff Sergeant just doesn't have the same… _oomph_ , if you know what I mean.
> 
> So…I kinda cheated and mixed U.S. Naval ranks with Canadian Police ranks for the SRU. After all, in the Navy, you do get Lieutenant going up to Commander. (Although, admittedly, I think it's Lieutenant Commander before you get the full Commander…details, details.)
> 
> Then, of course, I had to come up with how a Lieutenant's rank would look. That part was actually the easy part. Toronto _does_ use maple leaves instead of bars and pips and so on. And in a happy coincidence, the rank of Inspector is the first rank to use maple leaves (Staff Sergeant still has a sergeant's chevron, but adds a rather fancy crown on top) and it uses _two_ maple leaves on either side. At least, that's the impression I got. Thus, I slotted in Lieutenant right underneath Inspector with a solo maple leaf on either side.
> 
> Yes, I'm a nerd…but I tend to think that details make for better stories. At least, that's what I'm hoping anyway.


	10. Epilogue

Detective Lionel Fusco sat in his favorite bar, right in front of the bartender with a full drink in his hand and a worn, faded photo to his left. He saluted the photo with his beer and threw the alcohol back in a generous gulp. The squat man didn’t usually drink, preferring instead to drown himself in work, but the arrest of Pollux Troy and Castor Troy’s last lieutenant deserved a night out. A night to remember a good cop, cut down well before his prime and the best friend Lionel had ever had. A friend who’d looked Lionel in the eye and seemed to be just as acquainted with darkness and demons as Fusco himself.

Gr… _that guy_ hadn’t known, but both Reese and Lionel had been more than willing to get their hands dirty if that meant helping out the little guy. Why be afraid of ‘breaking the rules’ when so many _criminals_ thrived on doing just _that_? Far too many times, street justice was the _only_ justice and if that lousy goodie two-shoes had just _taken_ Troy out, then Reese never would’ve died to a _bomb_ aimed at the _louse_. But _nooo_ , the ‘super-cop’ had to follow the _law_ , what a _sucker_. If only Reese hadn’t paid for _Saint_ Greg ‘Super-Cop’ Parker’s _morals_. At least the goodie two-shoes had finally bit the dust, right along with Troy.

Movement from either side caught the drunken detective off guard; he shifted, only for a hand to come down on one shoulder, firmly pressing him down on his bar stool. Blearily, Fusco regarded his unwelcome company, recognizing them after a few seconds. Blast. Lane and Wordsworth – the _louse’s_ guys. His pet attack dogs, let off the leash whenever some poor slob didn’t respond to ‘super-cop’s _genius_ negotiation.

“Whadda _you_ want?” Fusco slurred.

Lane’s blue eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer directly. Instead, he leaned against the bar, inspecting Lionel from head to toe. “You know,” he finally remarked. “For the first two _weeks_ , he wouldn’t shut up; I almost gave up just so I wouldn’t have to hear him yammering in my ear anymore.”

Fusco snorted. “Pity you lost your senses,” he jeered, knowing _exactly_ who Lane was referring to.

The hand on his shoulder tightened, but Lane didn’t even twitch. “Then all of sudden, he shut up. Didn’t talk at _all_ ; I practically had to use a crowbar to get more ‘n three words out of him in a shift.” The taller man shifted, leaning into Fusco’s space. “We got better – _he_ got better – and for a long time, I figured, hey, maybe that was just a bad month.” Blue narrowed even further, to mere slits. “I thought that for _twenty_ years.” One finger came up and poked Lionel’s chest. “Then I found out _why_ he couldn’t shut up all those years ago.”

“Oy! That wasn’t _my_ fault,” Fusco protested even as his drunken mind connected the dots. If Lane had found out _now_ …that meant… Oh, _wonderful_ … _Saint_ Parker was _alive_. What utterly _rotten_ news.

“It was your fault,” Wordsworth countered from behind him. “You and John, you were the only ones who even gave him the time of _day_ back then.”

Fusco wrenched himself free, whirling to glare. “He ain’t never gotten one of _your_ friends killed, so don’t you _dare_ blame _me_ for what _he_ went through! He ain’t six feet under!”

“No, he just lost the only two friends he had left,” Lane hissed, venomous as a cobra. “You left him high and dry, blaming himself for something that was _never his fault._ ”

“It _was his fault!_ ” Fusco snarled right back. “He send you two here? To gloat and rub my _face_ in it?”

“Sarge doesn’t know we’re here,” Wordsworth replied, icily calm in his rage as he crossed his arms.

“He’d be livid if he knew what we’re up to,” Lane agreed, just as rigidly calm. “So we’re gonna leave you alone now; you wanna get drunk, that’s all on you, Fusco.”

“But first,” Wordsworth purred, a devious glint in gray eyes. Reaching out, the constable dropped four pieces of paper on the bar. “All yours,” he sneered.

Fusco eyed the stack warily, but Lane straightened and hauled him back to his stool, thrusting him down with enough goodwill to make the detective’s curly hair stand on end. Looking down, he picked up the first photo – the ‘super-cop’ himself, in a sharp civilian getup.

“Meet Carl Elias,” Lane murmured – and Lionel froze, staring at the picture in dismay. Carl Elias? The mysterious mob boss whose men had approached his Ra-Kacharz and offered stack after stack of _dirty cops_ on a silver platter? Bile rose – the _same_ mob boss who’d _handed_ him Pollux Troy. It had been _him_ all along!

Swallowing hard to keep from throwing up, Lionel moved onto the second and third items – both photos. One from _his_ police team and the other of _him_ with two kids! Happy, smiling, _laughing_. He didn’t _deserve_ to laugh, not with Reese six feet under and _dead_ because of _him_. The last…the last nearly _did_ do the job of making him lose his dinner. A _promotion_. The _loser_ cop with a capital ‘L’ had a _promotion_. To _lieutenant_ , no less. What had that _creep_ ever done to deserve _that_?

Lane and Wordsworth smirked at his sick expression. “Have a nice night,” Wordsworth taunted, slipping off his bar stool to leave.

Fusco stared at Lane, mute with horror; the other man’s smirk grew wider and he leaned close one last time. “Greg, he’s a better man than us. If he knew about this, he’d ream me ‘n’ Wordy out, but we don’t care. You stabbed our _friend_ in the back and _no one_ gets away with _that_. Not even if it happened before we knew him.”

The SRU cop sauntered away, but Fusco only had eyes for the horrible pieces of paper in front of him. While _Reese_ smoldered in the ground, his _killer_ walked free. His _murderer_ was happy, with a family and kids and even a brand-new promotion. Old resentment rose, mixing with hatred just as ancient.

Growling, Fusco whipped out his phone and dialed a number. When it was picked up, he asked, “Hey, it’s me. You got a minute, sir?” At the response, the stout man smiled grimly. “Hey, you hear about Parker surviving? Yeah, he survived. And he’s even got a brand spanking new promotion, to boot. Heck of a thing, huh?”

The other man’s response was everything Lionel Fusco could’ve hoped for. ‘Super-cop’ thought he could rub Lionel’s nose in his latest victory, hiding behind his two little SRU attack dogs? Well, he could _shove_ it and when all was said and done, ‘super-cop’ would be _right_ where he belonged. In the unemployment line – or six feet under.

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh...methinks Ed and Wordy just opened a serious can of worms...
> 
> Anyway, I hope everyone had a _ton_ of fun with this story - I certainly had a blast writing it! I'd even advise you to go off to Youtube and look up the song, "Barking at the Moon" from Disney's _Bolt_ \- not only did it inspire a chapter title in this whole saga, it definitely inspired the _title_ of this story.
> 
> As always, please read and comment; I treasure and savor every single one...and, it's more than that. There have been many, many times when your comments are a bright spot that can get me through the trials of the week. My regular commenters, they're truly my lifeline and I thank them for faithfully reviewing my stories.
> 
> On a far less cheerful note, it is my sad duty to inform you that this was the last story with bi-weekly updates for quite some time. Much to my regret, this series will be moving to weekly updates on each Friday. It is my hope that weekly updates will give me much needed space and time to rebuild my backlog of stories. Unfortunately, since this means we'll be moving through stories much more slowly, I truly don't know how this year's Halloween and Christmas stories will work. I'm hoping I can come up with a solution, so they're _not_ cancelled, but well...I'll keep ya'll posted.
> 
> In the meantime, we'll be veering off the beaten track for our next story. The Side-Story Resurrection Woes starts Friday, March 19th 2021.


End file.
